LIBRAUY OF CONGRESS.! 



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^^M VA- 



t UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. | 



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FERSES. 






By H. H 



AUTHOR OF " bITS OF 'IALK" AND "BITS OF TRAVEL." 










BOSTON: A 
R O R E I'i T S li R O T H E R S. 

1874. 



y 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, 

In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 







NEW AND ENLARGED EDITION. 



Cambridge . 
Printed by yoJin Wilson and Son. 



DEDICATION 




HEN children in the summer weather play, 
Flittino: like birds through sun and wind and 



From road to field, from field to road again. 
Pathetic reckoning of each mile they stray 
They leave in flowers forgotten by the way ; 
Forgotten, dying, but not all in vain. 
Since, finding them, with tender smiles, half pain, 
Half joy, we sigh, " Some child passed here to-day." 
Dear one, — whose name I name not lest some tongue 
Pronounce it roughly, — like a little child 
Tired out at noon, I left my flowers among 
The wayside things. I know how thou hast smiled, 
And that the thought of them will always be 
One more sweet secret thins: 'twixt thee and me. 




CONTENTS. 



Page 

A Christmas Symphony 9 

, Spinning i4 

, My Legacy '. . . i6 

, Love's Largess 18 

, Found Frozen 20 

. My Days 21 

* The Zone of Calms 21 

- Message. 22 

^ My Lighthouses 23 

- In Time of Famine 25 

~ The Prince is dead 26 

, Poppies on the Wheat 27 

A Funeral March 28 

Joy 33 

Two Truths 34 

_ gondolieds 35 

. " Spoken" 37 

- The Way to Sing 39 

- The True Ballad of the King's Singer 41 

^ CEnone 45 

The Loneliness of Sorrow 47 

A Sunrise 48 

A Ballad of the Gold Country 49 

_ Exile 55 

_My Ship 55 

- At Last 56 

" Memoir of a Queen 58 

Our Angels 59 

Mazzini ; 6r 

" When the Tide comes in ' 61 



VI CONTENTS. 

Page 

The Singer's Hills 63 

Covert 68 

Waiting 69 

Renunciation 70 

-Burnt Ships 71 

Resurgam 72 

The Village Lights 79 

• Transplanted 80 

Best 82 

Morning-Glory 83 

October 84 

My Bees 85 

The Abbot Paph"nutius 86 

Noon 90 

In the Pass 92 

Amreeta Wine 94 

Solitude 96 

Not as I Will 97 

Land 99 

-Opportunity 100 

-When the Baby died 100 

-"Old Lamps for New" 102 

•Feast 103 

Two Sundays 105 

-Showbread 106 

-Tides 107 

-Tribute 107 

-"Alms at the Beautiful Gate" 108 

Coronation > 109 

My New Friend m 

Asters and Golden Rod 112 

Two Loves "3 

The Good Shepherd • 117 

-Love's Fulfilling 118 

'Wooed . . iig 

-Won 120 

Ariadne's Farewell 121 

Thought 121 

Mordecai 122 

Locusts and Wild Honey - .... 123 



CONTENTS. Vll 

Page 

A Mothhr's Farewell to a Voyager 124 

"Dropped Dead" 125 

Presence 126 

Polar Days 127 

Truth 127 

Her Eyes 128 

The Wall-Flower of the Ruins of Rome 129 

Shadows of Birds 130 

Glimpses 131 

To A. C. L. B 132 

Snow-Drops in Italy 132 

Distance 133 

When the Kings come 134 

Coming across 134 

The Teacher 135 

Decoration Day 136 

A 13TH-CENTURY Parable 138 

Form 141 

My Hickory Fire 142 

Revenues ^44 

A Burial Service 146 

A Parable i47 

Friends m8 

The Royal Beggar 149 

March ^49 

April ^So 

May 151 

The Simple King 152 

The Singer's Friends i55 

Doubt '57 

Forgiven 'S^ 

This Summer 'SS 



162 



Tryst 

The Magic Armory 

L'fted over 

My House not made with Hands '^3 

?.Ty Strawberry '^^ 

Triumph 167 

Return to the Hills '68 

"Down to Sleep" ^1° 



viii CONTENTS. 

Page 

Fallow , 171 

Love's Rich and Poor 173 

Light on the Mountain-tops 174 

Christmas Night in St. Peter's 175 

Welcome 177 

The Two Comrades 178 

Demeter 181 

Expectancy 182 

Belated ". 182 

To AN Unknown Lady 185 

A Wild Rose in September 187 

Arctic Quest 188 

The Sign of the Daisy 189 

Vintage 190 

Last Words 191 





A CHRISTMAS SYMPHONY. 




CHRISTMAS stars! your pregnant silent- 

ness, 
Mute syllabled in rhythmic h'ght, 
Leads on to-night, 
And beckons, as three thousand years ago 
It beckoning led. We, simple shepherds, know 

Little we can confess, 
Beyond that we are poor, and creep 
And wander with our sheep, 

Who love and follow us. We hear, 
If we attend, a singing in the sky; 

But feel no fear. 
Knowing that God is always nigh, 
And none pass by. 
Except His Sons, who cannot bring 
Tidings of evil, since they sing. 
Wise men with gifts are hurrying. 



lo VERSES. 

In haste to seek the meaning of the Star, 
In search of worship which is new and far. 
We are but humble, so we keep 
On through the night, contented with our 
sheep, 
And with the stars. Between us and the east, 

No wall, no tree, no cloud, lifts bar. 
We know the sunrise. Not one least 
Of all its tokens can escape 
Our eyes that watch. But all days are 
As nights, and nights as days. 
In our still ways. 

We have no dread of any shape 

Which darkness can assume or fill ; 
We are not weary ; we can wait ; 
God's hours are never late. 
The wise men say they will return. 
Revealing unto us the things they learn. 

Mayhap ! Meantime the Star stands still ; 
And, having that, we have the Sign. 
If we mistake, God is divine ! 



II. 

Oh, not alone because His name is Christ, 
Oh, not alone because Judea waits 
This man-child for her King, the Star stands still 

Its glory reinstates, 
Beyond humiliation's utmost ill. 
On peerless throne, which she alone can fill. 
Each earthly woman. Motherhood is priced 



A CHRISTMAS SYMPHONY. 

Of God, at price no man may dare 
To lessen, or misunderstand. 

The motherhood which came 

To virgin sets in vestal flame, 
Fed by each new-born infant's hand, 

With Heaven's air, 
With Heaven's food, 
The crown of purest purity revealed, 
Virginity eternal signed and sealed 
Upon all motherhood ! 



III. 

Oh, not alone because His name is Christ, 
Oh, not alone because Judea waits 
This man-child for her King, the Star stands still. 
The Babe has mates. 
Childhood shall be forever on the earth ; 
And no man who has hurt or lightly priced 
So much as one sweet hair 

On one sweet infant's head. 
But shall be cursed ! Henceforth all things fulfil 
Protection to each sacred birth. 
No spot shall dare 

Refuse a shelter. Beasts shall tread 
More lightly ; and chstress. 
And poverty, and loneliness, 
Yea, and all darkness, shall devise 
To shield each place wherein an infant lies. 

And wisdom shall come seeking it with gift, 
And. worship it with myrrh and frankincense ; 



12 P^ERSES. 

And kings shall tremble if it lift 
Its hand against a throne. 
But mighty in its own 
Great feebleness, and safe in God's defence, 

No harm can touch it, and no death can kill, 
Without its Father's will ! 



IV. 

Oh, not alone because His name is Christ, 

Oh, not alone because Judea waits 
This man-child for her King, the Star stands still. 
The universe must utter, and fulfil 

The mighty voice which states, 
The mighty destiny which holds, 

Its key-note and its ultimate design. 
Waste places and the deserts must perceive 
That they are priced. 

No less than gardens in the Heart Divine. 
Sorrow her sorrowing must leave, 
And leirn one sign 

With joy. And Loss and Gain 

Must be no more. 
And all things which have gone before, 

And all things which remain, 

And all of Life, and all of Death be slain 

In mighty birth, whose name 
Is called Redemption ! Praise ! 

Praise to God ! The same 
To-day and yesterday, and in all days 

Forever ! Praise ! 



A CHRISTMAS SYMPHONY. 



V. 

Oh, Christmas stars ! Your pregnant silentness, 
Mute syllabled in rhythmic light, 
Fills all the night. 
No doubt, on all your golden shores, 
Full music rings 
Of Happiness 
As sweet as ours. 
Midway in that great tideless stream which pours, 

And builds its shining road through trackless 
space, 
From you to us, and us to you, must be 

Some mystic place, 
Where all our voices meet, and melt 
Into this solemn silence which is felt, 

And sense of sound mysterious brings 
Where sound is not. This is God's secret. He 
Sits centred in his myriads of skies, 
Where seas of sound and seas of silence rise, 
And break together in one note and key. 
Divinely limitless in harmony ! 




14 VERSES. 



SPINNING. 




IKE a blind spinner in the sun, 
c!|i I tread my days ; 
''^-' I know that all the threads will run 



Appointed ways ; 
I know each day will bring its task, 
And, being blind, no more I ask. 

I do not know the use or name 

Of that I spin ; 
I only know that some one came, 

And laid within 
My hand the thread, and said, " Since you 
Are blind, but one thing you can do." 

Sometimes the threads so rough and fast 

And tangled fly, 
I know wild storms are sweeping past. 

And fear that I 
Shall fall ; but dare not try to find 
A safer place, since I am blind. 

I know not why, but I am sure 

That tint and place. 
In some great fabric to endure 

Past time and race 
My threads will have ; so from the first, 
Thoudi blind, 1 never felt accurst. 



SPINNING. 15 

I think, perhaps, this trust has sprung 

From one short word 
Said over me when I was young, — 

So young, I heard 
It, knowing not that God's name signed 
My brow, and sealed me his, though bhnd. 

But whether this be seal or sign 

Within, without. 
It matters not. The bond divine 

I never doubt. 
I know he set me here, and still, 
And glad, and blind, I wait His will ; 

But listen, listen, day by day, 

To hear their tread 
Who bear the finished web away, 

And cut the thread. 
And bring God's message in the sun, 
" Thou poor blind spinner, work is done." 



1 6 VERSES. 



MY LEGACY. 




HEY told me I was heir, I turned in haste, 
And ran to seek my treasure. 
And wondered as I ran how it was placed, — 
If I should find a measure 
Of gold, or if the titles of fair lands 
And houses would be laid within ray hands. 

I journeyed many roads ; I knocked at gates ; 

I spoke to each wayfarer 
I met, and said, " A heritage awaits 

Me. Art not thou the bearer 
Of news ? Some message sent to me whereby 
I learn which way my new possessions lie ? " 

Some asked me in ; naught lay beyond their door ; 

Some smiled and would not tarry, 
But said that men were just behind who bore 

More gold than I could carry ; 
And so the morn, the noon, the day were spent, 
While empty-handed up and down I went. 

At last one cried, whose face I could not see. 

As through the mists he hasted ; 
" Poor child, what evil ones have hindered thee, 

Till this whole day is wasted ? 
Hath no man told thee that thou art joint heir 
With one named Christ, who waits the goods to 
share ? " 



MV LEGACY. 17 

The one named Christ I sought for many days, 

In many places vainly ; 
I heard men name his name in many ways ; 

I saw his temples plainly ; 
But they who named him most gave me no sign 
To find him by, or prove the heirship mine. 

And when at last I stood before his face, 

I knew him by no token 
Save subtle air of joy which filled the place ; 

Our greeting was not spoken ; 
In solemn silence I received my share. 
Kneeling before my brother and "joint heir." 

My share ! No deed of house or spreading lands, 

As I had dreamed ; no measure 
Heaped up with gold ; my elder brother's hands 

Had never held such treasure. 
Foxes have holes, and birds in nests are fed : 
My brother had not where to lay his head. 

My share ! The right like him to know all pain 
Which hearts are made for knowing; 

The right to find in loss the surest gain ; 
To reap my joy from sowing 

In bitter tears ; the right with him to keep 

A watch by day and night with all who weep. 

My share ! To-day men call it grief and death ; 
I see the joy and life to-morrow ; 



1 8 VERSES. 

I thank our Father with my every breath, 

For this sweet legacy of sorrow ; 
And through my tears I call to each, "Joint heir 
With Christ, make haste to ask him for thy share." 



LOVE'S LARGESS. 




T my heart's door 

Love standeth, like a king beside 
His royal treasury, whose wide 
Gates open swing, and cannot hide 
Their priceless store. 



His touch and hold 
Its common things to jewels turned ; 
In his sweet fires the dross he burned 
Away ; and thus he won and earned 

And made its gold. 

So rich I find 
Myself in service of this king. 
The goods we spare, in alms I fling ; 
And breathless days too few hours bring 

Me to be kind. 

To souls whose pain 
My heart can scarcely dare to greet 
With pity, while my own complete 



LOVE'S LARGESS. 19 

And blessed joy their loss must mete 
By my great gain. 

Diviner air 
Of beauty, and a grace more free, 
More soft and solemn depths I see 
In every woman's face, since he 

Has called me fair. 

More true and sure 
Each man's heart seems, more firm for right ; 
Each man I hold more strong in fight, 
Since he stands ever in my sight, 

So brave, so pure. 

More of sun's fire 
Than days can use, and more than nights 
Can name, of stars with rhythmic lights. 
And sweetest singing flocks, whose flights 

Can never tire, — 

More bloom than eyes 
Can reach, or hands to grasp may dare, — 
More music in the constant air. 
Than each round wave can hold and bear, 

Before it dies, — 

And more of life 
For living, than all death can kill, 
More good than evil's utmost will 
■ Can thwart, and peace to more than still 
The fiercest strife, — 



20 VERSES. 

All these I find 
In service of this gracious king ; 
From goods we spare, such alms I fling ; 
And pray swift days more hours to bring, 

More bonds to bind. 

O happiness ! 
To utter thee, in vain our eyes 
Seek tears ; and vainly all speech tries ; 
This thing alone our king denies 

In Love's larcess. 



FOUND FROZEN. 




HE died, as many travellers have died, 
O'ertaken on an Alpine road by night ; 
Numbed and bewildered by the falling snow, 
Striving, in spite of failing pulse, and limbs 
Which faltered and grew feeble at each step, 
To toil up the icy steep, and bear 
Patient and faithful to the last, the load 
Which, in the sunny morn, seemed light ! 

And yet 
'T was in the place she called her home, she died ; 
And they who loved her with the all of love 
Their wintry natures had to give, stood by 
And wept some tears, and wrote above her grave 
Some common record which they thought was true ; 
But I, who lov^d her first, and last, and best, — / 
knew. 



THE ZONE OF CALMS. 21 



MY DAYS. 



^ VEILED priestess, in a holy place, 
^^^^^1 Day pauseth on her threshold, beckoning 
^1^1 As infants to the mother's bosom spring 
At sound of mother's voice, although her 
face 
Be hid, I leap with sudden joy. No trace 
Of fear I feel ; I take her hand and fling 
Her arm around my neck, and walk and cling 
Close to her side. She chooses road and pace ; 
I feast along the way on her shewbread ; 
I help an hour or two on her great task ; 
Beyond this honoring, no wage I ask. 
Then, ere I know, sweet night slips in her stead, 
And, while by sunset fires I rest and bask. 
Warm to her faithful breast she folds my head. 



THE ZONE OF CALMS.* 

S yearning currents from the trackless snows, 
And silent Polar seas, unceasing sweep 
To South, to North, and linger not where 
leap 
Red fires from glistening cones, — nor where the ros£ 
Has triumph on the snow-fed Paramos, 

* The Zone of Calms is the space comprised between the second 
degree north latitude and the second degree south. 




2 2 VERSES. 

In upper air, — nor yet where lifts the deep 
Its silver Atolls on whose bosoms sleep 
The purple sponges ; and, as in repose 
Meeting at last, they sink upon the breast 
Of that sweet tropic sea, whose spicy balms 
And central heat have drawn them to its arms, 
So soul seeks soul, unsatisfied, represt, 
Till in Love's tropic met, they sink to rest, 
At peace forever, in the " Zone of Calms." 



MESSAGE. 

OR one to bear my message, I looked out 
In haste, at noon. The bee and swallow 

passed 
Bound south. My message was to South. 
I cast 
It trusting as a mariner. No doubt, 
Sweet bee, blithe swallow, in my heart about 
Your fellowship. 

The stealthy night came fast. 
" O chilly night," I said, " no friend thou hast 
For me, and morn is far," when lo ! a shout 
Of joy, and riding up as one rides late, 
My friend fell on my neck just in the gate. 
" You got my message then ? " 

" No message, sweet, 
Save my own eyes' desire your eyes to meet." 




MV LIGHTHOUSES. 



23 



" You saw no swallow and no bee before 
You came ? " 

" I do remember past my door 
There brushed a bird and bee. O, dearer presage 
Than I had dreamed ! You sent by them a mes- 
sage ? " 




MY LIGHTHOUSES. 

T westward window of a palace gray, 
Which its own secret still so safely keeps 
That no man now its builder's name can 
say, 
I lie and idly sun myself to-day. 
Dreaming awake far more than one who sleeps, 
Serenely glad, although my gladness weeps. 

I look across the harbor's misty blue. 

And find and lose that magic shifting line 

Where sky one shade less blue meets sea, and 

through 
The air I catch one flush as if it knew 
Some secret of that meeting, which no sign 
Can show to eyes so far and dim as mine. 



More ships than I can count build mast by mast 
Gay lattice-work with waving green and red 
Acrpss my window-panes. The voyage past, 



24 VERSES. 

They crowd to anchorage so glad, so fast, 

Gliding like ghosts, with noiseless breath and tread, 

Mooring like ghosts, with noiseless iron and lead. 

" O ships and patient men who fare by sea," 
I stretch my hands and vainly questioning cry, 
'^ Sailed ye from west ? How many nights could ye 
Tell by the lights just where my dear and free 
And lovely land lay sleeping ? Passed ye by 
Some danger safe, because her fires were nigh ? " 

Ah me ! my selfish yearning thoughts forget 
How darkness but a hand's-breadth from the coast 
With danger in an evil league is set ! 
Ah ! helpless ships and men more helpless yet. 
Who trust the land-lights' short and empty boast ; 
The lights ye bear aloft and prayers avail ye most. 

But I — ah, patient men who fare by sea, 

Ye would but smile to hear this empty speech, — 

I have such beacon-lights to burn for me, 

In that dear west so lovely, new, and free. 

That evil league by day, by night, can teach 

No spell whose harm my little bark can reach. 

No towers of stone uphold those beacon-lights ; 
No distance hides them, and no storm can shake ; 
In valleys they light up the darkest nights, 
They outshine sunny days on sunny heights ; 
They blaze from every house where sleep or wake 
My own who love me for my own poor sake. 



IN TIME OF FAMINE. 25 

Each thought they think of me h'ghts road of flame 

Across the seas ; no travel on it tires 

My heart. I go if they but speak my name ; 

From Heaven I should come and go the same, 

And find this glow forestalling my desires. 

My darlings, do you hear me? Trim the fires ! 

Genoa, November 30. 



IN TIME OF FAMINE. 




jHE has no heart," they said, and turned 
aw^ay, 
Then, stung so that I vi'ished my words 
might be 
Two-edged swords, I answered low : — 

" Have ye 
Not read how once when famine held fierce sway 
In Lydia, and men died day by day 
Of hunger, there were found brave souls whose glee 
Scarce hid their pangs, who said, ' Now we 
Can eat but once in two days ; we will play 
Such games on those days when we eat no food 
That we forget our pain.' 

"Thus they withstood 
Long years of famine ; and to them we owe 
The trumpets, pipes, and balls which mirth finds good 



26 



VERSES. 



To-day, and little dreams that of such woe 
They first were born. 

" That woman's life I knovr 
Has been all famine. Mock now if ye dare, 
To hear her brave sad laughter in the air." 



THE PRINCE IS DEAD. 




ROOM in the palace is shut. The king 
And the queen are sitting in black. 
All day weeping servants will run and 
bring, 
But the heart of the queen will lack 
All things ; and the eyes of the king will swim 
With tears which must not be shed, 
But will make all the air float dark and dim, 
As he looks at each gold and silver toy. 
And thinks how it gladdened the royal boy. 
And dumbly writhes while the courtiers read 
How all the nations his sorrow heed. 
The Prince is dead. 



The hut has a door, but the hinge is weak, 

And to-day the wind blows it back ; 

There are two sitting there who do not speak ; 

They have begged a few rags of black. 

They are hard at work, though their eyes are wet 

With tears which must not be shed ; 



POPPIES ON THE WHEAT. 27 

They dare not look where the cradle is set ; 
They hate the sunbeam which plays on the floor, 
But will make the baby laugh out no more ; 
They feel as if they were turning to stone, 
They wish the neighbors would leave them alone. 
The Prince is dead. 



POPPIES ON THE WHEAT. 

LONG Ancona's hills the shimmering heat, 
A tropic tide of air with ebb and flow 
Bathes all the fields of wheat until they 
glow 
Like- flashing seas of green, which toss and beat 
Around the vines. The poppies lithe and fleet 
Seem running, fiery torchmen, to and fro 
To mark the shore. 

The farmer does not know 
That they are there. He walks with heavy feet, 
Counting the bread and wine by autumn's gain, 
But I, — I smile to think that days remain 
Perhaps to me in which, though bread be sweet 
No more, and red wine warm my blood in vain, 
I shall be glad remembering how the fleet. 
Lithe poppies ran like torchmen with the wheat. 





28 VERSES. 



A FUNERAL MARCH. 



ES, all is ready now ; the door and gate 
Have opened this last time for him, more 

wide 
Than is their wont ; no longer side by side 
With us, he passes out ; we follow, meek, 
And weeping at his pomp, which is not pride, 
And which he did not seek. 
We cannot speak, 
Because we loved him so ; we hesitate, 
And cling and linger and in vain belate 
Their feet who bear him. 

Slow, slow, slow. 
With every fibre holding back, we go ; 
And cruel hands, while we are near, 
And weep afresh to hear. 
Have shut the door and shut the gate. 

II. 

The air is full of shapes 

We do not see, but feel ; ^ 

Ghosts which no death escapes. 
No sepulchre can seal ; 
Ghosts of forgotten things of joy and grief; 
And ghosts of things which never were. 
But promised him to be : they may defer 
Their pledges now ; -his unbelief 



A FUNERAL MARCH. 29 

Is justified. Oh, why did they abide 

This time, these restless ghosts, which ghde, 

Accompanying him ? Can they go in 
Unquestioned, and confront him in the grave, 

And answers win 
From dead hps which the hve hps never gave ? 
Will they return across the churchyard gate 
With us, weeping with us, " Too late ! too late ! " 

Or are they dead, as he is dead ? 

And when the burial rites are said. 
Will they lie down, the resurrection to await ? 

III. 

With dumb, pathetic look the poor beasts go 
At unaccustomed pace to suit our woe ; 

Uncomprehending equally 
Or what a grief or what a joy may be. 
House after house where life makes glad 
We bear him past, who all of Hfe has had. 
And men's and women^s wistful eyes 
Look out on us in sorrow and surprise, 
For all men are of kin to one who dies. 



IV. 

Eager the light grass bends 
To let us pass, but springs again and waves 
To hide our footsteps ; not a flower saves 

Its blossoming, or sends 
One odor less, as we go by ; 



30 VERSES. 

And never seemed the shining sky 

So full of birds and songs before. 
Whole tribes of yellow butterflies 
Dart mockingly and wheel and soar, 
Making it only seem the more 
Impossible, this human death which lies 
Silent beneath their dance who live 
One day and die. Noiseless and swift, 
Winged seeds come through the air, and drift 
Down on the dead man's breast. 
They shall go with him into rest, 
And in the resurrection of the Spring 
To his low grave shall give 
The beauty of some green and flowering thing. 



The glittering sun moves slowly overhead, 
It seems in rhythmic motion with our tread, 
Confronting us with its relentless, hot, 

Unswerving, blinding ray ; 
Then, sparing not 
One subtle torture, it makes haste to lay 
A ghastly shadow all along the way 
Of formless, soundless wheel and lifeless plume, 
All empty shapes in semblance of our gloom. 

Creeping along at our slow pace. 
Not for one moment nor in any place 
Forsaking us, nor ceasing to repeat 
In taunting lines the faltering of our feet ; 
Laying, lifting, in a mocking breath, 
Mockinsf shadows of the shadow of Death. 



A FUNERAL MARCH. 3^ 

VI. 

But now comes silent joy, anointing 

With sudden, firm, and tender hand 

Our eyes ; anointed with this clay 

Of burial earth, we see how stand 

Around us, marshalled under God's appointing, 

Such shining ones as on no other day 

Descend. We see, with a majestic face, 

Of love ineffable. One walking in chief place 

Beside the dead, — High Priest 

Of his salvation. King 
Of his surrender, comrade till life ceased, 

Saviour from suffering, — 
O sweet, strong, loving Death ! 
With yearning, pitying breath. 
He looks back from his dead to us, and saith, 
" O mine who love me not, what filled 
Your hearts with this strange fear ? 
Could ye but hear 

The new voice of this man whom I have willed 
To set so free, to make 
Him subject in my kingdom, for the sake 
Of being greater king than I, 
Reigning with Christ eternally ! " 

vn. 

Closer and closer press the shining ones ; 

Clearer and clearer grow the notes 

Of music from the heavenly throats. 

We see the gleaming of the precious stones 



32 VERSES. 

Which set the Gate of Life. King's sons 
Throng out to meet the man we bring ; 
We hear his voice in entering : 

" Oh ! see how all these weep 

Who come with me ! 

Must they return ? 
Oh ! send swift messenger to Christ, and see 

If He will bid you keep 

Them too ! " 

Scarce we discern 
From distant Heaven where Christ sits and hears, 
The tender whispered voice, in which he saith, 
" My faithful servant, Death, is Lord of death : 
My days must be a thousand years." 

VIII. 

The Gate of Life swings close. All have gone in ; 
Majestic Death, his freedman following ; 
And all those ghostly shapes, the next of kin, 
Their deeds, which were and were not, rendering ; 

And tender Joy and Grief, 

Bearing in one pale sheaf 
Their harvest ; and the shining ones who come 

And go continually. 

Alone and silently. 
We take the road again that leads us home. 

The mother has no more a son ; 
The wife no husband ; and the child 
No father. Yet around the woman's days 
Immortal loverhood lights blaze 



JOY. 33 

Of deathless fires ; and never mother smiled 
Like her who smiles forever, seeing one 
Immortal child, for whom immortal fatherhood 
Beseeches and receives eternal good. 
And days that were not full are filled ; 

And with triumphant breath, 

Mighty to cheer and save, 
The voices ring which once were stilled, 
The pulses beat which once were chilled, 

" Life is the victory of the grave, 

Christ is Lord of the Lord of Death ! " 



JOY. 

JOY, hast thou a shape ? 
Hast thou a breath ? 
How fillest thou the soundless air ? 
Tell me the pillars of thy house ! 
What rest they on ? Do they escape 

The victory of Death ? 
And are they fair 

Eternally, who enter in thy house ? 
O Joy, thou viewless spirit, canst thou dare 
To tell the pillars of thy house ? 

On adamant of pain. 

Before the earth 
Was born of sea, before the sea. 
Yea, and before the light, my house 




34 VERSES. 

Was built. None know what loss, what gain, 

Attends each travail birth. 
No soul could be 

At peace when it had entered in my house, 
If the foundations it could touch or see, 

Which stay the pillars of my house ! 



TWO TRUTHS. 

ARLING," he said, " I never meant 

To hurt you ; " and his eyes were wet. 
" I would not hurt you for the world : 
Am I to blame if I foro^et ? " 



" Forgive my selfish tears ! " she cried, 
" Forgive ! I knew that it was not 

Because you meant to hurt me, sweet, — 
I knew it was that you forgot ! " 

But all the same, deep in her heart 
Rankled this thought, and rankles yet, 
"When love is at its best, one loves 
So much that he cannot forget." 




GONDOLIEDS. 3^ 

GONDOLIEDS. 
I. 

YESTERDAY. 




EAR yesterday, glide not so fast; 

O, let me cling 
, To thy white garments floating past; 
Even to shadows which they cast 



Show me thy face 
Just once, once more ; a single night 
Cannot have brought a loss, a blight 

Upon its grace. 

Nor are they dead whom thou dost bear, 

Robed for the grave. 
See what a smile their red lips wear ; 
To lay them living wilt thou dare 

Into a grave ? 

I know, I know, 
I left thee first; now I repent; 
I listen now ; I never meant 

To have thee go. 

Just once, once more, tell me the word 

Thou hadst for me ! 
Alas ! although my heart was stirred, 
I never fully knew or heard 

It was for me. 

O yesterday, 



36 VERSES. 

My yesterday, thy sorest pain, 
Were joy couldst thou but come again, — 
Sweet yesterday. 

Venice, May 26. 



II. 

TO-MORROW. 

All red with joy the waiting west, 

O httle swallow, 
Couldst thou tell me which road is best? 
Cleaving high air with thy soft breast 

For keel, O swallow, 

Thou must o'erlook 
My seas and know if I mistake ; 
I would not the same harbor make 

Which yesterday forsook. 

I hear the swift blades dip and plash 

Of unseen rowers ; 
On unknown land the waters dash ; 
Who knows how it be wise or rash 

To meet the rowers ! 

Premi ! Premi ! 
Venetia's boatmen lean and cry ; 
With voiceless lips, I drift and lie 

Upon the twilight sea. 

The swallow sleeps. Her last low call 
Had sound of warning. 



''spoken:' 37 

Sweet little one, whate'er befall, 
Thou wilt not know that it was all, 

In vain thy warning. 

I may not borrow 
A hope, a help. I close my eyes ; 
Cold wind blows from the Bridge of Sighs ; 
Kneelino; I wait to-morrow. 



Venice, May 30. 



SPOKEN." 




OUNTING the hours by bells and lights 
We rose and sank ; 
The waves on royal banquet-heights 
Tossed otf and drank 
Their jewels made of sun and moon, 
White pearls at midnight, gold at noon. 

Counting the hours by bells and lights, 
We sailed and sailed ; 
Six lonely days, six lonely nights, 

No ship we hailed. 
Till all the sea seemed bound in spell, 
And silence sounded like a knell. 

At last, just when by bells and lights 

Of seventh day 
The dawn grew clear, in sudden flights 

White sails away 



38 



VERSES. 

To east, like birds, went spreading slow 
Their wings which reddened in the glow. 

No more we count the bells and lights ; 

We laugh for joy. 
The trumpets with their brazen mights 

Call, " Ship ahoy ! " 
We hold each other's hands ; our cheeks 
Are wet with tears ; but no one speaks. 

In instant comes the sun and h'ghts 

The ship with fire ; 
Each mast creeps up to dizzy heights, 

A blazing spire ; 
One faint " Ahoy," then all in vain 
We look ; we are alone again. 

I have forgotten bells and lights, 
And waves which drank 

Their jewels up ; those days and nights 
Which rose and sank 

Have turned like other pasts, and fled, 

And carried with them all their dead. 

But every day that fire ship lights 

My distant blue, 
And every day glad wonder smites 

My heart anew, 
How in that instant each could heed 
And hear the other's swift God-speed. 



THE WAY TO SING. 



39 



Counting by hours thy days and nights 
In weariness, 

patient soul, on godlike heights 

Of loneliness, 

1 passed thee by ; tears filled our eyes; 

The loud winds mocked and drowned our cries. 

The hours go by, with bells and lights ; 

We sail, we drift ; 
Our souls in changing tasks and rites, 

Find work and shrift. 
But this I pray, and praying know 
Till faith almost to joy can grow 

That hour by hour the bells, the lights 

Of sound of flame 
Weave spell which ceaselessly recites 

To thee a name, 
And smiles which thou canst not forget 
For thee are suns which never set. 




THE WAY TO SING. 

HE birds must know. Who wisely sings 
Will sing as they ; 
The common air has generous wings. 
Songs make their way. 



40 



VEI^SES. 

No messenger to run before, 

Devising plan ; 
No mention of the place or hour 

To any man ; 
No waiting till some sound betrays 

A listening ear ; 
No different voice, no new delays, 

If steps draw near. 

"What bird is that ? Its song is good." 

And eager eyes 
Go peering through the dusky wood, 

In glad surprise. 
Then late at night, when by his fire 

' The traveller sits, 
Watching the flame grow brighter, higher, 

The sweet song flits 
By snatches through his weary brain 

To help him rest ; 
When next he goes that road again, 

An empty nest 
On leafless bough will make him sigh, 

" Ah me ! last spring 
Just here I heard, in passing by. 

That rare bird sing ! " 



But while he sighs, remembering 
How sweet the song, 

The little bird on tireless wing, 
Is borne along 



TRUE BALLAD OF THE KING'S SINGER. 41 

In other air, and other men 

With weary feet, 
On other roads, the simple strain 

Are finding sweet. 
The birds must know. Who wisely sings 

Will sing as they ; 
The common air has generous wings, 

Songs make their way. 




THE TRUE BALLAD OF THE KING'S 
SINGER. 



HE king rode fast, the king rode well, 
The royal hunt went loud and gay, 
A thousand bleeding chamois fell 
For royal sport that day. 



When sunset turned the hills all red, 
The royal hunt went still and slow; 

The king's great horse with weary tread 
Plunged ankle-deep in snow. 

Sudden a strain of music sweet. 

Unearthly sweet, came through the wood; 
Up sprang the king, and on both feet 

Straight in his saddle stood. 



42 VERSES. 

" Now, by our lady, be it bird, 

Or be it man or elf who plays, 
Never before my ears have heard 

A music fit for praise ! " 

Sullen and tired, the royal hunt 

Followed the king, who tracked the song, 

Unthinking, as is royal wont. 
How hard the way and long. 

Stretched on a rock the shepherd lay 

And dreamed and piped, and dreamed and sang, 
And careless heard the shout and bay 

With which the echoes rang. 

" Up, man ! the king ! " the hunters cried. 

He slowly stood, and, wondering. 
Turned honest eyes from side to side : 

To him, each looked like king. 

Strange shyness seized the king's bold tongue ; 

He saw how easy to displease 
This savage man who stood among 

His courtiers, so at ease. 

But kings have silver speech to use 
When on their pleasure they are bent ; 

The simple shepherd could not choose ; 
Like one in dream he went. 

O hear ! O hear ! The ringing sound 
Of twenty trumpets swept the street, 



TRUE BALLAD OF THE KINGS SINGER. 43 

The king a minstrel now has found, 
For royal music meet. 

With cloth of gold, and cloth of red, 
And woman's eyes the place is bright. 

" Now, shepherd, sing," the king has said, 
" The song you sang last night ! " 

One faint sound stirs the perfumed air, 
The courtiers scornfully look down ; 

The shepherd kneels in dumb despair. 
Seeing the king's dark frown. 

The king is just ; the king will wait. 

'^ Ho, guards ! let him be gently led, 
Let him grow used to royal state, — 

To being housed and fed." 

All night the king unquiet lay. 

Racked by his dream's presentiment; 

Then rose in haste at break of day, 
And for the shepherd sent. 

<' Ho now, thou beast, thou savage man, 
How sound thou sleepest, not to hear ! " 

They jeering laughed, but soon began 
To louder call in fear. 

They wrenched the bolts ; unrumpled stood 

The princely bed all silken fine, 
Untouched the plates of royal food. 

The flask of royal wine ! 



44 



VERSES. 



The costly robes strewn on the floor, 

The chamber empty, ghastly still ; 
The guards stood trembling at the door, 

And dared not cross the sill. 

All night the sentinels their round 

Had kept. No man could pass that way. 

The window dizzy high from ground; 
Below, the deep moat lay. 

They crossed themselves. " The foul fiend lurks 
In this," they said. They did not know 

The miracles sweet Freedom works, 
To let her children go. 

It was the fiend himself who took 

That shepherd's shape to pipe and sing ; 

And every man with terror shook, 
For who would tell the king ! 

The heads of men all innocent 

Rolled in the dust that day ; 
And east and west the bloodhounds went, 

Baying their dreadful bay ; 

Safe on a snow too far, too high, 

For scent of dogs or feet of men, 
The shepherd watched the clouds sail by. 

And dreamed and sang again ; 

And crossed himself, and knelt and cried, 
And kissed the holy Edelweiss, 



CENONE. 



45 



Believing that the fiends had tried 
To buy him with a price. 

The king rides fast, the king rides well ; 

The summer hunts go loud and gay; 
The courtiers, who this tale can tell, 

Are getting old and gray. 

But still they say it was a fiend 
That took a shepherd's shape to sing, 

For still the king's heart is not weaned 
To care for other thing. 

Great minstrels come from far and near, 
He will not let them sing or play. 

But waits and listens still to hear 
The song he heard that day. 



CENONE. 




WOE to thee, Qinone ! stricken blind 
And poisoned by a darkness and a pain, 
O, woe to thee, CEnone ! who couldst find 
No love when love lay dying, doubly slain 
Slain thus by thee, CEnone ! 

O, what stain, 
Of red like this on hands of love was seen 
Ever before or since, since love has been ! 



46 



VERSES. 



O, woe to thee, CEnone ! Hadst thou said. 

" Sweet love, lost love, I know now why I live 

And could not die, the days I wished me dead ; 

O love, all strength of life and joy I give 

Thee back ! Ah me, that I have dared to strive 

With fates that bore me to this one sure bliss, 

Thou couldst not rob me, O lost love, of this ? " — 

Hadst thou said this, Q^none, though he went 
Bounding with life, thy life, and left thee there 
Dying and glad, such sudden pain had rent 
His heart, that even beating in the fair 
White arms of Helen, hid in her sweet hair, 
It had made always moan, in strange unrest, 
" CEnone's love was greater love, was best." 

Malvern, December 13. 

[" Paris, the son of Priam, was wounded by one of the poisoned arrows 
of Hercules that Philocletes bore to the siege of Troy, whereupon he 
had himself borne up into Ida, that he might see the nymph GLnone, 
whom he once had loved, because she who knew many secret things 
alone could heal him ; but when he had seen her and spoken with her, 
she would deal with the matter in no wise, whereupon Paris died of 
that hurt."] 




THE LONELINESS OF SORROW. 47 



THE LONELINESS OF SORROW. 

RIENDS crowd around and take it by the 

hand, 
Intruding gently on its loneliness, 
Striving with word of love and sweet caress 
To draw it into light and air. Like band 
Of brothers, all men gather close, and stand 
About it, making half its grief their own, 
Leavino: it never silent nor alone. 




But through all crowds of strangers and of friends, 
Among all voices of good-will and cheer, 
Walks Sorrow, silently, and does not hear. 
Like hermit whom mere loneliness defends ; 
Like one born deaf, to whose still ear sound sends 
No word of message ; and like one born dumb, 
From whose sealed hps complaint can never come. 

Majestic in its patience, and more sweet 
Than all things else that can of souls have birth, 
Bearing the one redemption of this earth 
Which God's eternities fulfil, complete, 
Down to its grave, with steadfast, tireless feet 
It goes uncomforted, serene, alone. 
And leaves not even name on any stone. 




48 VERSES. 



A SUNRISE. 

jE slept on a bed of roses, 

I know — 
I, who am least of his subjects. The 
thing 
Chanced thus. 

Before it was time for the king 
To rise — just before — I saw a red glow 
Stream out of his door, such as roses show 
At heart, such a glow as no fire could bring. 
The solid gold of the whole eastern wing 
Of the palace seemed pale. 

Then, floating low 
Across the threshold, great petals of pink 
Fell from the feet of the king, as he stood 
There, smiling, majestic, serene, and good. 
But was it a bed of roses ? 

I think 
Of another monarch who, on the brink 
Of death by fire, smiled, as a monarch should. 





BALLAD OF THE GOLD COUNTRY. 49 



A BALLAD OF THE GOLD COUNTRY. 



EEP in the hill the gold sand burned ; 

The brook ran yellow with its gleams 
Close by, the seekers slept, and turned 

And tossed in restless dreams. 



At dawn they waked. In friendly cheer 
Their dreams they told, by one, by one ; 

And each man laughed the dreams to hear, 
But sighed when they were done. 

Visions of golden birds that flew, 
Of golden cloth piled fold on fold, 

Of rain which shone, and filtered through 
The air in showers of gold ; 

Visions of golden bells that rang. 
Of golden chariots that rolled, 

Visions of girls that danced and sang, 
With hair and robes of gold ; 

Visions of golden stairs that led 

Down golden shafts of depths untold. 

Visions of golden skies that shed 
Gold light on seas of gold. 



50 VERSES. 

" Comrades, your dreams have many shapes," 
Said one who, thoughtful, sat apart : 

" But I six nights have dreamed of grapes, 
One dream which fills my heart 

"A woman meets me, crowned with vine ; 

Great purple clusters fill her hands ; 
Her eyes divinely smile and shine. 

As beckoning she stands. 

" I follow her a single pace ; 

She vanishes, like light or sound, 
And leaves me in a vine-walled place, 

Where grapes pile all the ground." 

The comrades laughed : " We know thee by 
This fevered, drunken dream of thine." 

" Ha, ha," cried he, " never have I 
So much as tasted wine ! 



" Now, follow ye your luring shapes 
Of gold that clinks and gold that shines 

I shall await my maid of grapes, 
And plant her trees and vines." 



All through the hills the gold sand burned ; 

All through the lands ran yellow streams ; 
To right, to left, the seekers turned. 

Led by the golden gleams. 



. BALLAD OF THE GOLD COUNTRY. 51 

The ruddy hills were gulfed and strained ; 

The rocky fields were torn and trenched ; 
The yellow streams were drained and drained, 

Until their sources quenched. 

The gold came fast ; the gold came free : 

The seekers shouted as they ran, 
" Now let us turn aside, and see 

How fares that husbandman ! " 

" Ho here ! ho there ! good man," they cried, 
And tossed gold nuggets at his feet ; 

" Serve us with wine ! Where is thy bride 
That told thee tales so sweet ? " 

" No wine as yet, my friends, to sell ; 

No bride to show," he smiling said : 
" But here is water from my well ; 

And here is wheaten bread." 



" Is this thy tale ? " they jeering cried ; 

" Who was it followed luring shapes ? 
And who has won ? It seems she lied. 

Thy maid of purple grapes ! " 

" When years have counted up to ten," 
He answered gayly, smiling still, 

" Come back once more, my merry men, 
And you shall have your fill 



52 VERSES. 

" Of purple grapes and sparkling wine, 
And figs, and nectarines like flames, 

And sweeter eyes than maids' shall shine 
In welcome at your names." 

In scorn they heard ; to scorn they laughed 
The water and the wheaten bread ; 

" We'll wait until a better draught 
For thy bride's health," they said. 



The years ran fast. The seekers went 
All up, all down the golden lands : 

The streams grew pale ; the hills were spent; 
Slow ran the golden sands. 

And men were beggars in a day, 
P^or swift to come was swift to go ; 

What chance had got, chance flung away 
On one more chance's throw. 

And bleached and seamed and riven plains, 
And tossed and tortured rocks like ghosts. 

And blackened lines and charred remains. 
And crumbhng chimney-posts. 

For leagues their ghastly records spread 
Of youth, and years, and fortunes gone, 

Like graveyards whose sad living dead 
Had hopeless journeyed on. 



BALLAD OF THE GOLD COUNTRY. 53 

The years had counted up to ten : 
One night, as it grew chill and late, 

The husbandman marked beggar-men 
Who leaned upon his gate. 

" Ho here ! good men," he eager cried, 
Before the wayfarers could speak ; 

"This is my vineyard. Far and wide, 
For laborers I seek. 

" This year has doubled on last year ; 

The fruit breaks down my vines and trees ; 
Tarry and help, till wine runs clear, 

And ask what price you please." 

Purple and red, to left, to right, 

For miles the gorgeous vintage blazed; 

And all day long and into night 
The vintage song was raised. 

And wine ran free all thirst beyond, 
And no hand stinted bread or meat ; 

And maids were gay, and men were fond, 
And hours were swift and sweet. 



The beggar-men they worked with wall ; 

Their hands were thin and lithe and strong 
Each day they ate good two days' fill, 

They had been starved so long. 



54 Verses. 

The vintage drew to end. New wine 
From thousand casks was dripping slow, 

And bare and yellow fields gave sign 
For vintagers to go. 

The beggar-men received their pay, 

Bright yellow gold, — twice their demand ; 

The master, as they turned away, 
Held out his brawny hand. 

And said : " Good men, this time next year 
My vintage will be bigger still ; 

Come back, if chance should bring you near, 
And it should suit your will." 

The beggars nodded. But at night 
They said : " No more we go that way : 

He did not know us then ; he might 
Upon another day ! " 




MY SHIP. 



55 




EXILE. 

EN may be banished, and a blood-price 
set, 
Tracking their helpless steps in every 
land, 

Arming against their life each base man's hand,. 
But light and air and memory are met 
In holy league, to help and save them yet, 
From all of death which souls cannot withstand: 
The subtlest cruelty which ever planned, 
Can never make them pray they may forget 
Because they are forgotten. 

They may go. 
Driven of earth and tossed by salt sea's foam, 
Till every breath one slow dull pain become; 
It is not exile. Only exiles know: 
Nor distance makes, nor nearness saves the blow; 
The exile had of exile died at home. 



MY SHIP. 



Y brothers' ships sail out by night, by day; 
My brothers' feet run merry on the shore, 
They need not weep, believing they no 
more 
Shall find the loved ones who have sailed away. 




56 



VERSES. 



So frequent go their ships, to-morrow may 
See one return for them. 

The ship that bore 
My loved from me hes where she lay before ; 
My heart grows sick within me as I pray 
The silent skipper, morn by morn, if he 
Will sail before the night. 

With patient tread 
I bear him all my goods. I cannot see 
What more is left that could be stripped from me, 
But still the silent skipper shakes his head : 
Ah me ! I think I never shall be dead ! 



AT LAST. 

THE years I lost before I knew you, 

Love ! 
O, the hills I climbed and came not to you, 
Love ! 
Ah ! who shall render unto us to make 

Us glad, 
The things which for and of each other's sake 
We might have had ? 

If you and I had sat and played together, 

Love, 
Two speechless babies in the summer weather, 

Love, 




AT LAST. 57 

By one sweet brook which, though it dried up long 

Ago, 
Still makes for me to-day a sweeter song 

Than all I know, — 

If hand in hand through the mysterious gateway, 

Love, 
Of womanhood, we had first looked and straightway, 

Love, 
Had whispered to each other softly, ere 

It yet 
Was dawn, what now in noonday heat and fear 

We both forget, — 

If all of this had given its completeness, 

Love, 
To every hour would it be added sweetness, 

Love ? 
Could I know sooner whether it were well 

Or ill 
With thee ? One wish could I more surely tell, 

More swift fulfil ? 

Ah ! vainly thus I sit and dream and ponder. 

Love, 
Losing the precious present while I wonder. 

Love, 
About the days in which you grew and came 

To be 
So beautiful, and did not know the name 

Or si^ht of me. 



58 



VERSES. 

But all lost things are in the angels' keeping, 

Love ; 
No past is dead for us, but only sleeping, 

Love ; 
The years of Heaven will all earth's little pain 

Make good, 
Together there we can begin again 

In babyhood. 

New York, February 15, 1870. 



MEMOIR OF A QUEEN. 

ER name, before she was a queen, boots 
not. 
When she was crowned, her kingdom said, 
" The Queen ! " 
And, after that, all other names too mean 
By far had seemed. Perhaps all were forgot, 
Save '' Queen, sweet queen." 

Such pitiable lot 
As till her birth her kingdom had, was seen 
Never in all fair lands, so torn between 
False grasping powers, that toiled and fought, but got 
No peace. 

All curious search is wholly vain 
For written page or stone whereon occurs 
A mention of the kingdom which obeyed 
This sweet queen's rule. But centuries have laid 
No dead queen down in royal sepulchres 
Whose reisfn was orreater or more blest than hers. 




OUR ANGELS. 



59 




OUR ANGELS. 

H ! not with any sound they come, or sign, 
Which fleshly ear or eye can recognize ; 
No curiosity can compass or surprise 
The secret of that intercourse divine 
Which God permits, ordains, across the Hne, 
The changeless line which bars 
Our earth from other stars. 

But they do come and go continually. 

Our blessed angels, no less ours than His ; 
The blessed angels whom we think we miss ; 
Whose empty graves we weep to name or see, 
And vainly watch, as once in Galilee 
One, weeping, watched in vain, 
Where her lost Christ had lain. 

Whenever in some bitter grief we find, 
All unawares, a deep, mysterious sense 
Of hidden comfort come, we know not whence ; 
When suddenly we see, where we were blind ; 
Where we had struggled, are content, resigned ; 
Are strong where we were weak, — 
And no more strive nor seek, — 



Then we may know that from the far glad skies. 
To note our need, the watchful God has bent, 
And for our instant help has called and sent, 



6o VEJiSES. 

Of all our loving angels, the most wise 
And tender one, to point to us where lies 

The path that will be best, 

The path of peace and rest. 

And when we find on every sky and field 
A sudden, new, and mystic light, which fills 
Our every sense with speechless joy, and thrills 
Us, till we yield ourselves as children yield 
Themselves and watch the spells magicians wield, 
With tireless, sweet surprise, 
And rapture in their eyes, — 

Then we may know our little ones have run 
Away for just one moment, from their play 
In heavenly gardens, and in their old way 
Are walking by our side, and one by one, 
At all sweet things beneath the earthly sun. 
Are pointing joyfully, 
And calling us to see ! 

Ah ! when we learn the spirit sound and sign, 
And instantly our angels recognize. 
No weariness can tire, no pain surprise 
Our souls rapt in the intercourse divine. 
Which God permits, ordains, across the line, 
The changeless line which bars 
Our earth from other stars. 



WHEN THE TIDE COMES IN^ 



6i 



MAZZINI. 




HAT he is dead the sons of kings are glad ; 

And in their beds the tyrants sounder sleep. 

Now he is dead his martyrdom will reap 

Late harvest of the palms it should have had 
In life. Too late the tardy lands are sad. 
His unclaimed crown in secret they will keep 
For ages, while in chains they vainly weep, 
And vainly grope to find the roads he bade 
Them take. 

O glorious soul ! there is no dearth 
Of worlds. There must be many better worth 
Thy presence and thy leadership than this. 
No doubt, on some great sun to-day, thy birth 
Is for a race, the dawn of Freedom's bliss, 
Which but for thee it might for ages miss. 



WHEN THE TIDE COMES IN. 



HEN the tide comes in. 
At once the shore and sea begin 
Together to be glad. 
What the tide has brought 
Na man has asked, no man has sought : 




62 VERSES. 

What other tides have had 
The deep sand hides away ; 
The last bit of the wrecks they wrought 
Was burned up yesterday. 

When the tide goes out, 
The shore looks dark and sad with doubt. 

The landmarks are all lost. 

For the tide to turn 
Men patient wait, men restless yearn. 

Sweet channels they have crossed, 

In boats that rocked with glee, 
Stretch now bare stony roads that burn 

And lead away from sea. 

When the tide comes in 
In hearts, at once the hearts begin 

Together to be glad. 

W^hat the tide has brought 
They do not care, they have not sought. 

All joy they ever had 

The new joy multiplies ; 
All pain by which it may be bought 

Seems paltry sacrifice. 

When the tide goes out, 
The hearts are wrung with fear and doubt 

All trace of joy seems lost. 

Will the tide return ? 
In restless questioning they yearn, 



THE SINGER'S HILLS. d^ 

With hands unclasped, uncrossed, 
They weep, on separate ways. 

Ah! darhng, shall we ever learn 
Love's tidal hours and days ? 



THE SINGER'S HILLS. 




E dwelt where level lands lay low and drear, 
Long stretches of waste meadow pale and 

sere. 
With dull seas languid tiding up and down, 
Turnino- the lifeless sands from white to brown, — • 
Wide barren fields for miles and miles, until 
The pale horizon walled them in, and still 
No lifted peak, no slope, not even mound 
To raise and cheer the weary eye was found. 
From boyhood up and down these dismal lands, 
And pacing to and fro the barren sands. 
And always gazing, gazing seaward, went 
The Singer. Daily with the sad winds blent 
His yearning voice. 

" There must be hills," he said, 
" I know they stand at sunset rosy red. 
And purple in the dewy shadowed morn ; 
Great forest trees like babes are rocked and borne 
Upon their breasts, and flowers like jewels shine 
Around their feet, and gold and silver line 



64 VERSES. 

Their hidden chambers, and great cities rise 
Stately where their protecting shadow Hes, 
And men grow brave and women are more fair 
'Neath higher skies, and in the clearer air ! " 
One day thus longing, gazing, lo ! in awe 
Made calm by ecstasy, he sudden saw, 
Far out to seaward, mountain peaks appear. 
Slow rising from the water pale and clear. 
Purple and azure, there they were, as he 
Had faithful yearning visions they must be ; 
Purple and azure and bright rosy red. 
Like flashing jewels, on the sea they shed 
Their quenchless hght. 

Great tears ran down 
The Singer's cheeks, and through the busy town, 
And all across the dreary meadow lands, 
And all along the dreary lifeless sands, 
He called aloud, 

" Ho ! tarry ! tarry ye ! 
Behold those purple mountains in the sea ! " 
The people saw no mountains ! 

" He is mad," 
They careless said, and went their way and had 
No farther thought of him. 

And so, among 
His fellows' noisy, idle, crowding throng, 
The Singer walked, as strangers walk who speak 
A foreign tongue and have no friend to seek. 
And yet the silent joy which filled his face 
Sometimes their wonder stirred a little space, 
And following his constant seaward look. 
One wistful gaze they also seaward took. 



THE SINGER'S HILLS. 65 

One day the Singer was not seen. Men said 

That as the early day was breaking red, 

He rowed far out to sea, rowed swift and strong, 

Toward the spot where he had gazed so long. 

Then all the people shook their heads, and went 

A little sadly, thinking he had spent 

His life in vain, and sorry they no more 

Should hear his sweet mad songs along their shore. 

But when the sea with sunset hues was dyed, 

A boat came slowly drifting with the tide, 

Nor oar nor rudder set to turn or stay. 

And on the crimson deck the Singer lay. 

"Ah, he is dead," some cried. " No ! he but sleeps," 

Said others, " madman that he is, joy keeps 

Sweet vigils with him now." 

The light keel grazed 
The sands ; alert and swift the Singer raised 
His head, and with red cheeks and eyes aflame 
Leaped out, and shouted loud, and called by name 
Each man, and breathlessly his story told. 
" Lo, I have landed on the hills of gold ! 
See, these are flowers, and these are fruits, and these 
Are boughs from off" the giant forest trees ; 
And these are jewels which lie loosely there. 
And these are stuffs which beauteous maidens wear ! " 
And staggering he knelt upon the sands 
As laying burdens down. 

But empty hands 
His fellows saw, and passed on smihng. Yet, 
The ecstasy in which his face was set 
Again smote on their hearts with sudden sense 
Of half involuntary reverence. 



66 VERSES. 

And some said, whispering, " Alack, is he 
The madman ? Have ye never heard there be 
Some spells which make men bhnd ? " 

And thencefortli they 
More closely watched the Singer day by day, 
Till finally they said, " He is not mad. 
There be such hills, and treasure to be had 
For seeking there ! We too without delay 
WiU sail." 

And of the men who sailed that way. 
Some found the purple mountains in the sea, 
Landed, and roamed tlieir treasure countries free, 
And drifted back with brimming laden hands. 
Walking along the lifeless silent sands. 
The Singer, gazing ever seaward, knew. 
Well knew the odors which the soft wind blew 
Of all the fruits and flowers and boughs they bore. 
Standing with hands stretched eager on the shore, 
Wlien they leaped out, he called, " Now God be praised, 
Sweet comrades, were they then not fair ?" 

Amazed, 
And with dull scorn, the other men who brought 
No treasures, found no mountains, and saw naught 
In these men's hands, beheld them kneeling low. 
Lifting, shouting, and running to and fro 
As men unlading argosies whose freight 
Of gorgeous things bewildered by its weight. 

Tireless the great years waxed ; the great years 
' waned ; 
Slowly the Singer's comrades grew and gained 



THE SINGER'S HILLS. 67 

Till they were goodly number. 

No man's scorn 
Could hurt or hinder them. No pity born 
Of it could make them blush, or once make less 
Their joy's estate ; and as for loneliness 
They knew it not. 

Still rise the magic hills, 
Purple and gold and red ; the shore still thrills 
With fragrance when the sunset winds begin 
To blow and waft the subtle odors in 
From treasure laden boats that drift, and bide 
The hours and moments of the wave and tide, 
Laden with fruits and boughs and flowers rare, 
And jewels such as monarchs do not wear, 
And costly stuffs which dazzle on the sight, 
Stuffs wrought for purest virgin, bravest knight ; 
And men with cheeks all red, and eyes aflame. 
And hearts that call to hearts by brothers' name, 
Still leap out on the silent lifeless sands, 
And staggering with over-burdened hands 
Joyous lay down the treasures they have brought, 
While smiling, pitying, the world sees nought ! 




68 VERSES. 



COVERT. 




NE day, when sunny fields lay warm and still, 
And from their tufted hillocks, thick and 

sweet 
With moss and pine and ferns, such spicy 
heat 
Rose up, it seemed the air to over-fill, 
And quicken every sense with subtle thrill, 
I rambled on with careless, aimless feet, 
And hngered idly, finding all so sweet. 

Sudden, almost beneath my footsteps' weight, 

Almost before the sunny silence heard 

Their sound, from a low bush, which scarcely stirred 
A twig at lightening of its hidden freight, 
Flew, frightened from her nest, the small brown mate 

Of some melodious, joyous, soaring bird, 

Whose song that instant high in air I heard. 

" Ah ! Heart," I said, " when days are warm and sweet, 
And sunny hours for very joy are still, 
And every sense feels subtle, languid thrill 
Of voiceless memory's renewing heat, 
Fly not at sound of strangers' aimless feet ! 
Of thy love's distant song drink all thy fill ! 
Thy hiding-place is safe. Glad heart, keep still ! " 




WAITING. 69 



WAITING. 

KNOW it will not be to-day; 
I know it will not be to-morrow ; 
Oh, half in joy and half in sorrow, 
I watch the slow swift hours away; 
I bid them haste, then bid them stay, 
I long so for the coming day. 

I long so, I would rather wait ; 
Each hour I see the unseen comer ; 
Each hour turns ripe. in secret summer 

The joys which I anticipate. 

precious feet, come slow, come late ! 

1 long so, it is bliss to wait ! 

Ah, sweet sad hfe, so far to-day! 

Ah, sweet sad life, so near to-morrow ! 

Can joy be joy when we miss sorrow 1 
When earth's last sun has rolled away 
In tideless time, and we can say 
No more, "To-morrow," or " To-day" ? 




yo VERSES. 



RENUNCIATION. 

^^] WHEREFORE thus, apart with droop- 
^^l^vWi ing vvings 

Thou stillest, saddest angel, 
~ With hidden face, as if but bitter things 

Thou hadst, and no evangel 
Of good tidings ? 

Thou know'st that through our tears 

Of hasty, selfish weeping, 
Comes surer sun ; and for our petty fears 

Of loss, thou hast in keeping 
A greater gain than all of which we dreamed. 

Thou knowest that in grasping 
The bright possessions which so precious seemed, 

We lose them ; but, if clasping 
Thy faithful hand, we tread with steadfast feet 

The path of thy appointing, 
There waits for us a treasury of sweet 

Delight; royal anointing 
With oil of gladness and of strength ! 

O, things 

Of Heaven, Christ's evangel 
Bearing, call us with shining face and poised wings, 

Thou sweetest, dearest angel ! 



BURNT SHIPS. 



71 




BURNT SHIPS. 

LOVE, sweet Love, who came with rosy 
sail 
And foaming prow across the misty sea ! 
O Love, brave Love, whose faith was full 
and free 
That lands of sun and gold, which could not fail, 
Lay in the west, that bloom no wintry gale 

Could blight, and eyes whose love thine own should 
be. 
Called thee, with steadfast voice of prophecy. 
To shores unknown ! 

O Love, poor Love, avail 
Thee nothing now thy faiths, thy braveries ; 
There is no sun, no bloom ; a cold wind strips 
The bitter foam from off the wave where dips 
No more thy prow ; the eyes are hostile eyes ; 
The gold is hidden ; vain thy tears and cries ; 
O Love, poor Love, why didst thou burn thy ships ? 




VERSES, 



RESURGAM. 




OW, still, unutterably weak, 

In human helplessness more helpless than 
The smallest of God's other creatures can 
Be left, I he and do not speak. 
Walls rise and close 
Around. No warning shows 
To me, who am but bhnd, which wall 
Will shelter, and which one will fall 
And crush me in the dust, 
Not that I sinned, but that it must. 
Each hour, within my heart, some sweet hope 

dies. 
Each night the dead form lies 
Of some fair purpose which I could not save, 
Ready for day to carry out and hide 
In a dishonored grave. 
My strongest will 
Finds stronger fate stand side by side 
With it, its utmost efforts conquering still 
With such swift might, the dust in which I lie 
Scarce quivers with my struggle and my pain, 
Scarce echoes with my cry. 
Grief comes and passes by, 
And Joy comes hand in hand 
With Grief, each bearing crowns with buds of 

snow, 
Both laying crowns upon my head. 

Soon as the buds are open, it were vain 
To try to separate or understand — 



RESURGAM. 73 

No sense of mine can feel or know — 
Which flowers the hand of Joy has shed, 
And which the hand of Pain. 
Therefore I do not choose ; 
Fearing, desiring equally from each, 

I wait. I do not dare refuse. 
Only one sound can reach 
Me where I lie, can stir my veins, 
Or make me lift my eyes. 
That sound drops from* the skies, 
A still small voice, — round it great silence lies : 
"Not one of all these things remains. 
Thou shalt arise ! " 

Somewhere on earth. 
Marked, sealed, mine from its hour of birth, 
A stairway hes, down which I shall descend, 
And pass through a dark gate, which at my 
name. 
And at no other, will swing back and close. 
Where lies this stairway no man knows. 
No man has even wondered. Only I 
Remember it continually. 
Spring never came, 
Her grasses setting, that I did not bend 
Low in the fields, saying : " Lend 
But part trust, O Summer ! Many graves. 
Before this sweet grass waves 
Half grown, must open. Ah ! will reapers reap 

Harvest from my low resting-place 
This year ? Or will the withered sods and I 



74 VERSES. 

Lifeless together lie, 
With silent, upturned face. 
Before the autumn winds sweep by ? " 
And when the winter snows lie deep, 
I think : " How hard to find, 
Just now, those hidden stairs that wind 
For me." The time must near the end. 
Perhaps for those I leave behind. 
More sad to see the snow. But its pure white, 
I think, would shed a little light, 

And stretch like alabaster skies 
Above the stairway dark I must descend, 
That I may rise. 



Somewhere on earth, 
Marked, sealed, mine from its hour of birth. 
There lies a shining stone. 
My own. 
Perhaps it still is in the quarry's hold. 
Oh ! Pine Tree, wave in winter's cold 
Swifter above it; in the summer's heat 
Drop spices on it, thick and sweet ; 
Quicken its patient crystals' growth. 
Oh ! be not loth. 
Quarry and Pine, 
And stir of birds in the still North, 

And suns that shine, — 
Give up my smooth white stone ! Hasten it forth. 
My soul in bondage lies. 
I must arise. 



RESURGAM. 75 

Perhaps upon the shining stone, 
My own, 
Even to-day the hammers ring. 
The workman does not sing. 
He is a lover and he has a child ; 
To him a gravestone is a fearful thing. 

He has not smiled 
Since under his strong hands the white stone 
came, 
Though he is slow and dull, 
And could not give a name 
To thoughts which fill his heart too full 

Of prophecy and pain. 
O Workman, sing ! See how the white dust flies 
And ghstens in the sunny air. 
No grain but counts ; 
Some fair spot grows more fair 
By it, each moment. In the skies, 

My moment must be near. 
Workman, there is on earth no loss, no waste. 
Sing loud, and make all haste ; 
I must arise. 

Perhaps even now the shining stone, 

My own, 
Stands ready, — arch and base, 
And chiselled lines, and space 
For name all done : and yesterday 
Some sorrowing ones stood round it silently, 

And looked at it through tears, 

But passed it by. 



76 VERSES. 

Saying, with trembling lips : *' No, no ! 
For stone more beautiful than this we seek. 
Sculptor, dost thou not know 
What lines will make the marble show 
A deeper grief ?^' Ah ! mourners, speak 
In lower voice. Ye do not see 
What presence guards 
The stone. More than ye dream retards 
Your will. The stone waits there for me. 
My soul in bondage lies. 
I must arise. 

Then, when I have descended, and the stone 

Above the stairway has been set. 
The tears of those who reckoned me their own 

A little space will wet 
The grass ; but soon all saddened days 
Count up to comforted and busy years : 
All living men must go their ways 
And leave their dead behind. The tideless light 
Of sun and moon and stars, — silence of night 
And noise of day, and whirling of the great 

Round world itself, — yea, 
All things which are and are not work to lay 

The dead away. 
The crumbling of the stone, more late, 
The sinking of the little mound 
To unmarked level, where with noisy sound 
Roam idle and unwitting feet, 
Least tokens are and smallest part 

Of the oblivion complete 



RES UR GAM. 77 

Which wraps a human grave ; 
And unto me, the hour when the last heart 
Has ceased to save 
My memory, the year 
That sees my white stone lying low, 
The century that sees the grave mound grow, 
Free of my dust, to solid earth again, 
Made ready for new dead, — all these will be 
Alike to me. 
Alike uncounted will remain. 
Their sound I shall not hear 
As I arise. 
They mark no moments in the skies 
Through which I mount. As constant as 

God's law, 
Bearing all joy and grief my first years saw, 
Even my babyhood, — 
Bearing all evil and all good 
Of ripest age, — nowise 
Escaping and nowise forgetting one 
Of all the actions done, — 
And bearing all that lies 
In utmost law for me,— all God's great will. 
All God's great mercy, — still 
I shall arise. 

The fool asks, " With what flesh ? in joy or pain 
Helped or unhelped ? and lonely, or again 

Surrounded by our earthly friends ? " 
I know not ; and I glory that I do 

Not know : that for Eternity's great ends 



78 VERSES. 

God counted me as worthy of such trust, 
That I need not be told. 
I hold 
That if it be 
Less than enough to any soul to know 
Itself immortal, immortality 
In all its boundless spaces will not find 
A place designed 
So small, so low, 
That to a fitting home such soul can go. 
Out to the earthward brink 
Of that great tideless sea 
Light from Christ's garments streams. 
Cowards who fear to tread such beams 
The angels can but pity when they sink. 
Believing thus, I joy although I lie in dust. 

I joy, not that I ask or choose, 
But simply that I must. 

I love and fear not ; and I cannot lose, 
One instant, this great certainty of peace. 
Long as God ceases not, I cannot cease ; 
I must arise. 




THE VILLAGE LIGHTS. 79 



THE VILLAGE LIGHTS. 

NLY a little village street, 

Lying along a mountain's side ; 
Only the silences which meet 
When weary hands and weary feet 
By night's sweet rest are satisfied ; 
Only the dark of summer nights ; . 
Only the commonest of sights, 
The glimmer of the village lights ! 

I know not, then, why it should bring 

Into my eyes such sudden tears. 
But to the mountain's sheltering 
The little village seems to cling, 

As child, all unaware of fears, 
Unconscious that it is caressed. 
In perfect peace and perfect rest 
Asleep upon its mother's breast. 

No stir, no sound ! The shadows creep. 

The old and young, in common trust, 
Are lying down to wait, asleep, 
While Life and Joy will come to keep 

With Death and Pain what tryst they must. 
O faith ! for faith almost too great ! 
Come slow, O day of evil freight ! 
O village hearts, sleep well, sleep late ! 




8o VERSES. 



TRANSPLANTED. 

HEN Christ, the Gardener, said, "These 
many years 
Behold how I have waited 
For fruit upon this barren tree, which bears 

But leaves V With unabated 
Patience I have nurtured it ; have fed 

Its roots with choicest juices ; 
The sweetest suns their tender warmth have shed 

On it ; still it refuses 
Its blossom ; all the balmiest summer rain 

Has bathed it ; unrepaying, 
Still, its green and glittering leaves, in vain 

And empty show arraying, 
It flaunts, contented in its uselessness, 

Ever my eye offending. 
Uproot it ! Set it in the wilderness ! 

There no more gentle tending 
Shall it receive ; but, pricked by nettle stings, 

And bruised and hurt, and crowded 
By stones, and weeds, and noxious growths of things 

That kill, and chilled 'neath shrouded 
And sunless skies, from whose black clouds no rain 

Shall fall to soothe its anguish, 
Bearing the utmost it can feel of pain, 

Unsuccored, it shall languish ! " 

When next across the wilderness Christ came, 
Seeking his Royal Garden, 



TRANSPLANTED. 8 1 

A tree stood in his pathway, all aflame, 

And bending with its burden 
Of burnished gold. No fruit inside the wall 

Had grown to such perfection ! 
It was the outcast tree ! Deprived of all 

Kind nurture and protection, 
Thrust out among vile things of poisonous growth, 

Condemned, disgraced, and banished, 
Lonely and scorned, its energies put forth 

Anew. All false show vanished ; 
Its roots struck downward with determined hold, 

No more the surface roaming ; 
And from th' unfriendly soil, a thousand-fold 

Of yield compelled. 

The coming 
Of the Gardener now in sweet humility 

It waited, trusting, trembling ; 
Then Christ, the Gardener, smiled and said : 

" O tree, 
This day, in the assembling 

Of mine, in Paradise, shalt thou be found. 
Henceforth in me abiding. 
More golden fruit shalt thou bring forth ; and round 

Thy root the living waters gliding 
Shall give the greenness which can never fade. 
While angels, with thy new name sealing 

Thee, shall come, and gather in thy shade 
Leaves for the nations' healing ! " 



82 VERSES. 



BEST. 




OTHER, I see you with your nursery light, 
Leading your babies, all in white, 
To their sweet rest ; 
Christ, the Good Shepherd, carries mine 
to-night. 
And that is best. 



I cannot help tears, when I see them twine 

Their fingers in yours, and their bright curls shine 

On your warm breast ; 
But the Saviour's is purer than yours or mine, 

He can love best ! 

You tremble each hour because your arms 
Are weak ; your heart is wrung with alarms. 

And sore opprest ; 
My darlings are safe, out of reach of harms, 

And that is best. 

You know, over yours may hang even now 
Pain and disease, whose fulfilling slow 

Naught can arrest ; 
Mine in God's gardens run to and fro, 

And that is best. 

You know that of yours, your feeblest one 
And dearest may live long years alone. 
Unloved unblest ; 



MORNING- GLORY. 



83 



Mine are cherished of saints around God's throne, 
And that is best. 

You must dread for yours the crime that sears, 
Dark guilt unwashed by repentant tears, 

And unconfessed ; 
Mine entered spotless on eternal years, 

O, how much the best ! 

But grief is selfish ; I cannot see 
Always why I should so stricken be, 

More than the rest ; 
But I know that, as wel 

God did the best ! 



MORNING-GLORY. 




ONDROUS interlacement! 
Holding fast to threads by green and silky 

rings, 
With the dawn it spreads its white and 
purple wings ; 
Generous in its bloom, and sheltering while it clings, 
Sturdy morning-glory. 



Creeping through the casement, 
Slanting to the floor in dusty, shining beams, 
Dancing on the door in quick, fantastic gleams. 



84 P^ERSES. 

Comes the new day's light, and pours in tideless 
streams, 
Golden morning-glory. 

In the lowly basement, 
Rocking in the sun, the baby's cradle stands ; 
Now the little one thrusts out his rosy hands ; 
Soon his eyes will open ; then in all the lands 

No such morning-glory ! 



OCTOBER. 




ENDING above the spicy woods which 

blaze. 
Arch skies so blue they flash, and hold the 

sun 
Immeasurably far ; the waters run 
Too slow, so freighted are the river-ways 
With gold of elms and birches from the maze 
Of forests. Chestnuts, clicking one by one, 
Escape from satin burs ; her fringes done, 
The gentian spreads them out in sunny days, 
And, like late revelers at dawn, the chance 
Of one sweet, mad, last hour, all things assail. 
And conquering, flush and spin ; while, to enhance 
The spell, by sunset door, wrapped in a veil 
Of red and purple mists, the summer, pale, 
Steals back alone for one more song and dance. 



^Ml J 



MY BEES, 85 



MY BEES. 

AN ALLEGORY. 

BEES, sweet bees ! " I said, " that nearest 
field 
s shining white with fragrant immortelles. 
Fly swiftly there and drain those honey 
wells." 
Then, spicy pines the sunny hive to shield, 
I set, and patient for the autumn's yield 
Of sweet I waited. 

When the village bells 
Rang frosty clear, and from their satin cells 
The chestnuts leaped, rejoicing, I unsealed 
My hive. 

Alas ! no snowy honey there 
Was stored. My wicked bees had borne away 
Their queen and left no trace. 

That very day, 
An idle drone who sauntered through the air 
I tracked and followed, and he led me where 
My truant bees and stolen honey lay. 
Twice faithless bees ! They had sought out to eat 
Rank, bitter herbs. The honey was not sweet. 




S6 VERSES, 



THE ABBOT PAPHNUTIUS. 

OW on the gray stone floor Paphnutius knelt 
Scourging his breast, and drawing tight his 

belt 
Of bloody nails. 

" O God, dear God ! " he cried, 
" These many years that I have crucified 
My sinful flesh, and called upon thee night 
And day, are they all reckoned in thy sight? 
And wilt thou tell me now which saint of thine 
I am most like ? and is there bond or sign 
That I can find him by and win him here. 
That we may dwell as brothers close and dear ? " 

Silent the river kept its gentle flow 
Beneath the walls ; the ash-trees to and fro 
Swayed silent, save a sigh ; a sunbeam laid 
Its bar along the Abbot's beads, which made 
Uncanny rhythm across the quiet air, 
The only ghost of sound which sounded there, 
As fast their smooth-worn balls he turned and told. 
And trembled, thinking he had been too bold. 
But suddenly, with solemn clang and swell, 
In the high tower rang out the vesper-bell; 
And subtly hidden in the pealing tones, 
Melodious dropping from celestial thrones, 
These words the glad Paphnutius thrilling heard : 
" Be not afraid ! In this thou hast not erred : 



THE ABBOT PAPHNUTIUS. 87 

Of all my saints, the one whose heart most suits 
To thine is one who, playing reedy flutes, 
In the great market-place goes up and down. 
While men and women dance, in yonder town." 

Oh, much Paphnutius wondered, as he went 
To robe him for the journey. Day was spent, 
And cunning night had spread and lit her snares 
For souls made weak by weariness and cares, 
When to the glittering town the Abbot came. 
With secret shudder, half affright, half shame, 
Close cowled, he mingled in the babbling throng. 
And with reluctant feet was borne along 
To where, by torches' fitful glare and smoke, 
A band of wantons danced, and screamed, and spoke 
Such words as fill pure men with shrinking fear. 
" Good Lord deliver me ! Can he be here," 
The frightened Abbot said, "the man I seek?" 
Lo, as he spoke, a man reeled dizzy, weak 
With ribald laughter, clutching him by gown 
And shoulder ; and before his feet threw down 
Soft twanging flutes, which rolled upon the stone 
And broke. Outcried the Abbot with a groan, 
Seizing the player firm in mighty hands, 
** O man ! what doest thou with these vile bands 
Of harlots ? God hath told to me thou art 
A saint of his, and one whose life and heart 
Are like my own ; and I have journeyed here 
For naught but finding thee." 

In maze and fear, 
The player lifted up his blood-shot eyes, 



88 ' P^ERSES. 

And stammered drunkenly, " Good father, lies 

Thy road some other way. Take better heed 

Next time thou seekest saints ! One single deed 

Of good I never did. I live in sins. 

Unhand me now ! another dance begins." 

" Flute-player," said the Abbot, stern and sweet, 

" God cannot lie ! Some deed thou hast done meet 

For serving him. Bethink thee now, and tell. 

Where was it that the blessed chance befell ? " 

Half-sobered by the Abbot's voice and mien, 

The player spoke again, " No more I ween 

Of serving God, than if no God there were ; 

But now I do remember me of her 

That once I saved from hands of robber-men, 

Whose chief I was. I know I wondered then 

What new blood could have quickened in my veins. 

I gave her, spite myself, of our rich gains 

Three hundred pieces of good gold, to free 

Her husband and her sons from slavery. 

But love of God had nought to do with this : 

I know him, love him not ; I do not miss 

Nor find him in the world. I love my sins. 

Now let me go ! another dance begins." 

" Yes, go ! " the Abbot gently said, and took 

His grasp from off his arm. " But, brother, look, 

If God has thus to thee this one good deed 

So fully counted, wilt thou not take heed 

Thyself, remembering him ? " 

Then homeward slow^ 
Alone and sad, where he had thought to go 



THE ABBOT PAPHNUTIUS. 89 

Triumphant with a new-found brother-saint, 
The Abbot went. But vain he set restraint 
Upon his wondering thoughts : through prayer, through 

chant. 
The question ever rang, " What could God want 
To teach me, showing me that sinful man 
As saint of nearest kin to me, who can 
Abide no sin of thought or deed." 

Three days 
The Abbot went his patient, silent ways. 
The river lapped in gentle, silent flow 
The cloister-wall ; the ash-trees to and fro 
Swayed silent, save a sigh : the third night, came — 
Low rapping at the cloister-door, in shame 
And fear — the player ! 

Then Paphnutius rose. 
His pale face kindled red with joyful glows ; 
The monks in angry, speechless wonder stood, 
Seeing this vagabond to brotherhood 
Made so soon welcome. But the Abbot said, 
"O brothers ! this flute-player in such stead 
Is held of God, that, when in lo.neliness 
I knelt and prayed for some new saint to bless 
Our house, God spoke, and told me this man's name, 
As his who should be brother when he came." 

Flute-player and Paphnutius both have slept 
In dust for centuries. The world has kept 
No. record of them save this tale, which sets 
But bootless lesson : still the world forgets 



90 VEI^SES. 

That God knows best what hearts are counted his ; 
Still men deny the thing whose sign they miss ; 
. Still pious souls pray as Paphnutius prayed 
For brother-souls in their own semblance made ; 
And slowly learn, with outcries and complaints, 
That publicans and sinners may be saints ! 



NOON. 




SWEET, delusive Noon, 

Which the morning climbs to find; 
O moment sped too soon, 

And morning left behind ; 



While pale gray hours descend 
Fast on the farther slope, 

Where a darkness marks the end 
Of that day's work and hope. 

O Noon, if thou couldst stay ! 

Were there but spell to arrest 
Thy magic moment, — to slay 

Night on the fair sky's breast, 



Or make the morning haste, 
Or the chilly evening tarry. 

And the liquid light they waste 
Give thee, O Noon, to carry ! 



NOON. 

O cruel, stinted drop, 

In sapphire chalice so deep 

That if million suns should stop 
Its walls their light could keep ! 



O Love, O Joys above 

All words of my telling, stay ! 

Does your swiftness mean that love 
Has day, and noon of day ? 

This sweetness more, more sweet, 
And this brightness growing bright, 

This silent, delicious heat. 

This dearer, tenderer hght, — 

O Love, mean these a noon, 

A noon which thou climb'st to find, 

That moment over too soon. 
With morning left behind ? 

O Love, we kneel, we pray, 

For our sweet Love's precious sake ; 
Set here the bound of our day ; 

Grant us this choice we make. 

We fear the gray hour's sight, 
The moment over too soon ; 

Spare us the chill of the night ; 
We will forego our noon ! 




92 VERSES. 



IN THE PASS. 

ICROSS my road a mountain rose of rock, — 
f^N^ Fierce, naked rock. Its shadow, black and 
^lll chill, 

Shut out the sun. Gray clouds, which 
seemed to mock 
With cruel challenges my helpless will, 
Sprang up and scaled the steepest crags. The shrill 
Winds, two and two, went breathless out and in, 
Filling the darkened air with evil din. 

I turned away my weary steps and said : 
" This must be confine of some fearful place ; 
Here is no path for mortal man to tread. 
Who enters here will tremble, face to face 
With powers of darkness, whose unearthly race 
In cloud and wind and storm delights to dwell. 
Ruling them all by an uncanny spell." 

The guide but smiled, and, holding fast my hand, 

Compelled me up a path I had not seen. 

It wound round ledges where I scarce could stand ; 

It plunged to sudden sunless depths between 

Immeasurable cliffs, which seemed to lean 

Together, closing as we passed, like door 

Of dungeon which would open nevermore. 

I said again: " I will not go. This way 
Is not for mortal feet." Again the guide 



IN THE PASS. 93 

But smiled, and I again could but obey. 

The path grew narrow ; thundering by its side, 

As loud as ocean at its highest tide, 

A river rushed, all black, and green, and white, 

A boiling stream of molten malachite. 

Sudden I heard a joyous cry, '' Behold, behold ! " 
And, smiling still on me, the good guide turned, 
And pointed where broad, sunny fields unrolled 
And spread like banners ; green, so green it burned. 
And lit the air like red ; and blue which yearned 
From all the lofty dome of sky, and bent 
And folded low and circling like a tent; 

And forests ranged like armies, round and round. 

At feet of mountains of eternal snow ; 

And valleys all alive with happy sound; 

The song of birds ; swift brooks' delicious flow ; 

The mystic hum of million things that grow ; 

The stir of men ; and gladdening every way. 

Voices of little children at their play ; 

And shining banks of flowers which words refuse 

To paint ; such colors as in summer light 

The rarest, fleetest summer rainbows use. 

But set in gold of sun, and silver white 

Of dew, as thick as gems which blind the sight 

On altar fronts, inlaid with priceless things, 

The jewelled gifts of centuries of kings. 

Then, sitting half in dream, and half in fear 
Of. how such wondrous miracle were wrought, 



94 VERSES, 

Thy name, dear friend, I sudden seemed to hear 
Through all the charmed air. 

My loving thought 
Through patient years had vainly groped and sought. 
And found no hidden thing so rare, so good. 
That it might furnish thy similitude. 

O noble soul, whose strengths like mountains stand, 
Whose purposes, like adamantine stone, 
Bar roads to feeble feet, and wrap the land 
In seeming shadow, thou, too, hast thine own 
Sweet valleys full of flowers, for me alone. 
Unseen, unknown, undreamed of by the mass, 
Who do not know the secret of the Pass. 

Cortina d'Ampezzo, Ampezzo Pass, June 22, 1869. 



AMREETA WINE. 




HE rose up from the golden feast, 

And her voice rang like the sea ; 
" Sir Knight, put down thy glass and come 
To the battlement with me. 



"That was a charmed wine thou drank'st, 

Signed white from heaven, signed black from hell. 

Alas ! alas ! for the bitter thing 

The sign hath forced thy lips to tell ! " 



AMREETA WINE. 95 

" Ho here ! Ho there ! Lift up and bear 

My choice wine out," she said ; 
" That which hath brand of a clasping hand, 

And the seal blood-red." 

" Ho here ! Ho there ! To the castle stair 

Bear all that branded wine ; 
And dash it far, where the breakers are 

Whitest, of the brine ! 

" Let no man dare to shrink or spare, 

Or one red drop to spill ; 
Of the endless pain of that wine's hot stain 

Let the salt sea bear its fill. 

'* O woe of mine ! O woe of thine ! 

O woe of endless thirst ! 
O woe for the Amreeta wine, 

By fate and thee accurst ! " 

The knight spake words of sore dismay 
But her face was white like stone ; 

She saw him mount and ride away, 
And made no moan. 

The wind blew east, the wind blew west, 

The airs from sepulchres ; 
No royal heart in all of them 

So dead as hers ! 




96 VERSES. 



SOLITUDE. 

SOLITUDE," I said, "sweet Solitude! 

I follow fast ; I kneel to find thy trace ; 

I listen low in every secret place ; 

I lay rough hand on eager human lips ; 
I set aside all near companionships ; 
I know thou hast a subtler, rarer good. 

Priestess, how shalt thou be found and wooed ? " 

1 tracked her where she passed in trackless fields ; 
I trod her path where footprint had not staid 

In sunless woods ; I stopped to hark where laid 
Her very shadow its great bound of light 
And gloom in lifeless arctic day and night ; 
And where, to tropic sun, mid-ocean yields 
Its silent, windless waves, like mirror-shields ; 

But found her not. Great tribes roamed free 

In every trackless field and wood. More plain 

Than speech I heard their voice: in rain, the rain 

Of endless chatter, and in sun, the sun 

Of merry laughing noise, were never done. 

All silence dinned with sound ; and, josthng me, 

In every place, went crowds I could not see. 

In anger, then, at last I cried, " Betray 
Whomever thou canst cheat, O Solitude, 
With promise of thy subtler, rarer good ! 




''NOT AS I will:' 97 

I seek my joy henceforth in haunts of men, 

Forgetting thee, where thou hast never been ! " 

When, lo ! that instant sounded close and sweet, 

Above the rushing of the city street, 

The voice of SoHtude herself, to say, 

" Ha, loving comrade, met at last ! Which way ? " 



"NOT AS I WILL." 

LI ND FOLD ED and alone I stand 
With unknown thresholds on each hand ; 
The darkness deepens as I grope, 
Afraid to fear, afraid to hope : 
Yet this one thing I learn to know 
Each day more surely as I go, 
That doors are opened, ways are made, 
Burdens are lifted or are laid. 
By some great law unseen and still, 
Unfathomed purpose to fulfil, 
" Not as I will." 

Blindfolded and alone I wait ; 
Loss seems too bitter, gain too late ; 
Too heavy burdens in the load 
And too few helpers on the road ; 
And joy is weak and grief is strong, 
And years and days so long, so long: 
Yet this one thing I learn to know 
Each day more surely as I go. 



98 VERSES. 

That I am glad the good and ill 
By changeless law are ordered still, 
" Not as I will." 

" Not as I will " : the sound grows sweet 
Each time my lips the words repeat. 
"Not as I will " : the darkness feels 
More safe than light when this thought steals 
Like whispered voice to calm and bless 
All unrest and all loneliness. 
" Not as I will," because the One 
Who loved us first and best has gone 
Before us on the road, and still 
For us must all his love fulfil, 
" Not as we wilL" 




LAND, 99 



LAND. 




LAND, sweet land! New World ! my 

world ! 
No mortal knows what seas I sail 
With hope and faith which never fail, 
With heart and will which never quail, 
Till on thy shore my sails are furled, 
O land, sweet land ! New World ! my world ! 

land, sweet land ! New World ! my world ! 

1 cross again, again, again 

The magic seas. Each time I reign 
Crowned conqueror. Each time remain 
New shores on which my sails are furled, 
A sweeter land ! A newer world ! 

world, New World ! Sweet land, my land ! 

1 come to-day, as first I came. 
The sea is swift, the sky is flame. 

My low song sings thy nameless name. 

Lovers who love, ye understand ! 

O sweetest world ! O sweetest land ! 

October 2d, 1871. 



lOO 



VERSES. 




OPPORTUNITY. 

DO not know if, climbing some steep hill 
Through fragrant wooded pass, this glimpse 

I bought ; 
Or whether in some midday I was caught 
To upper air, where visions of God's will 
In pictures to our quickened sense fulfil 
His word. But this I saw : 

A path I sought 
Through wall of rock. No human fingers wrought 
The golden gates which opened, sudden, still, 
And wide. My fear was hushed by my delight. 
Surpassing fair the lands ; my path lay plain ; 
Alas ! so spell-bound, feasting on the sight, 
I paused, that I but reached the threshold bright, 
When, swinging swift, the golden gates again 
Were rocky walls, by which I wept in vain ! 



WHEN THE BABY DIED. 




HEN the baby died, 

On every side 
White lilies and blue violets were strown ; 
Unreasoning, the mother's heart made 
moan: 



WHEN THE BABY DIED. ic 

"Who counted all these flowers which have grown 
Unhindered in their bloom? 
Was there not room, 

O Earth, and God, couldst thou not care 

For mine a little longer ? Fare 

Thy way, O Earth ! All life, all death 

For me ceased with my baby's breath ; 

All Heaven I forget or doubt. 
Within, without. 

Is idle chance, more pitiless than law." 

And that was all the mother saw. 



II. 

When the baby died, 

On every side 
Rose strangers' voices, hard and harsh and loud. 
The baby was not wrapped in any shroud. 
The mother made no sound. Her head was bowed 
That men's eyes might not see 

Her misery ; 
But in her bitter heart she said, 
" Ah me ! 't is well that he is dead. 
My boy for whom there was no food. 
If there were God, and God were good, 
All human hearts at least might keep 

The right to weep 
Their dead. There is no God, but cruel law." 
And that was all the mother saw. 



I02 VERSES. 

III. 

When the baby died, 

On every side 
Swift angels came in shining, singing bands, 
And bore the little one, with gentle hands, 
Into the sunshine of the spirit lands. 

And Christ the Shepherd said, 

" Let them be led 
In gardens nearest to the earth. 
One mother weepeth over birth, 
Another weepeth over death ; 
In vain all Heaven answereth. 
Laughs from the little ones may reach 

Their ears, and teach 
Them what, so blind with tears, they never saw, 
That of all life, all death, God's love is law." 



"OLD LAMPS FOR NEW." 

SOUL ! wert thou a poor maid-servant, 

weak 
And foolish, and unknowing how the walls 
Of shining stones and silver, and fine gold. 
Which made our dwelling glorious, our life 
Assured, were built, that thou must spring at call 
Of our most deadly foe, lured by the sound 




FEAST. 103 

And glitter of his hollow brass, and give 
Into his treacherous hands our all ? 

And now 
For thee and me remaineth nothing more, 
But cold and hunger and the desert ! 

Soul, 
Rise up and follow him, and tarry not, 
Nor dare to call thy life thine own, until 
Thou hast waylaid and slain him sitting at his feast, 
And laid our talisman once more upon my breast ! 



FEAST. 

OR days when guests unbidden 

Walk in my sun, 
With steps that roam unchidden, 
And overrun 
My vines and flowers, and hands 
That rob on all my lands, — 
For such days, still there stands 
One banquet, one : 

One banquet which, spread under 

A magic mist, 
1 taste, until they wonder 

What light has kissed 
My eyes, and where the grapes 
Have hung, whose red escapes 
In mounting, mantling shapes. 

And heats my wrist. 




I04 VERSES. 

Crowned with its rosy flowers, 

Pouring its wine, 
Glide faithful ghosts of hours 

Long dead : no sign 
They show of death, or chill, 
But glowing, smiling still, 
Love's utmost joy fulfil 

At word of mine. 

And ringeth through my garden, 

The tireless pace 
Of silver-mailed warden. 

With eastward face. 
Who calmly bides the night, 
And in each first, red light, 
Reads prophecy aright 

Of that day's grace. 

When guests that are unbidden 

Shall all have ceased ; 
And thy dear arms unchidden. 

My love, my priest, 

Shall hold me while the hours 

That were, and are, fling flowers, 

And Hope, the warden, pours 

Wine for our feast. 




TPVO SUNDAYS. 



:o5 



TWO SUNDAYS. 




BABY, alone, in a lowly door, 

Which climbing woodbine made still lower, 

Sat playing with lilies in the sun. 

The loud church-bells had just begun ; 
The kitten pounced in the sparkling grass 
At stealthy spiders that tried to pass ; 
The big watch-dog kept a threatening eye 
On me, as I lingered, walking by. 



The lilies grew high, and she reached up 

On tiny tiptoes to each gold cup ; 

And laughed aloud, and talked, and clapped 

Her small, brown hands, as the tough stems snapped, 

And flowers fell till the broad hearthstone 

Was covered, and only the topmost one 

Of the lilies left. In sobered glee 

She said to herself, " That's older than me ! " 



II. 

Two strong men through the lowly door, 
With uneven steps, the baby bore ; 
They had set the bier on the lily bed ; 
The lily she left was crushed and dead. 
The slow, sad bells had just begun. 



io6 



VERSES. 



The kitten crouched, afraid, in the sun ; 
And the poor watch-dog, in bewildered pain, 
Took no notice of me as I joined the train. 




SHOWBREAD. 

AST imaged pillars, wrought of fir and palm, 
Past bright pomegranates, swinging on their 

chain, 
And bars of Tyrian cedar, overlain 
With gold, and past the molten sea whose calm 
Waves drink the offerings of spice and balm, 
Lit by the seven sacred lamps whose rain 
Of fragrant fire the almond bowls detain. 
Past clear-eyed cherubim, without alarm, 
And into shadow of the mercy-seat 
We pressed. 

No priest with onyx-stones to meet 
Us there ! Alone our hunger, face to face 
With God, ate of the showbread, sacred, sweet ; 
And listening, heard these words of heavenly grace, — 
" One greater than the temple fills this place.' 




TRIBUTE. 



107 




TIDES. 

PATIENT shore, that canst not go to meet 
Thy love, the restless sea, how comfortest 
Thou all thy loneliness ? Art thou at rest, 
When, loosing his strong arms from round 
thy feet. 
He turns away ? Know'st thou, however sweet 
That other shore may be, that to thy breast 
He must return ? And when in sterner test 
He folds thee to a heart which does not beat, 
Wraps thee in ice, and gives no smile, no kiss, 
To break long wintry days, still dost thou miss 
Naught from thy trust ? Still wait, unfaltering, 
The higher, warmer waves which leap in spring ? 
O sweet, wise shore, to be so satisfied ! 
O heart, learn from the shore ! Love has a tide ! 



TRIBUTE. 

R. W. E. 

IDWAY in summer, face to face, a king 
I met. No king so gentle and so wise. 
He calls no man his subject ; but his eyes, 
In midst of benediction, questioning, 
Each soul compel. A first-fruits offering 




I08 VERSES. 

Each soul must owe to him whose fair land lies 
Wherever God has his. No white dove flies 
Too white, no wine too red and rich, to bring. 
With sudden penitence for all her waste. 
My soul to yield her scanty hoards made haste, 
When lo ! they shrank and failed me in that need. 
Like wizard's gold, by worthless dust replaced. 
My speechless grief, the king, with tender heed, 
Thus soothed : " These ashes sow. They are true 

seed." 
O king ! in other summer may I stand 
Before thee yet, the full ear in my hand ! 



"ALMS AT THE BEAUTIFUL GATE." 

how shall we, lame from the mother's 
womb. 
The temple enter ! Beautiful in vain 
For us, the gate, where we, in double pain, 
Of suffering and of loss, can find no room ; 
Whose whiteness only makes our outer gloom 
The blacker, and whose shining steps, more plain 
Than words, mock cripples weeping to attain 
The inner courts, where censers, sweet perfume. 
And music fill the air ! 

O sinful fear! 
Dare not to doubt. Our helplessness laid near 
That gate, is safe ; our faith without alarms 
Can wait ; the good apostles will appear ; 




CORONATION. 109 

Our crippled beggary, made rich by alms 
Of God, shall run and leap and praise, in grateful 
psalms. 



CORONATION. 



^ 




TY the king's gate the subtle noon 
Wove filmy yellow nets of sun ; 
Into the drowsy snare too soon 
The guards fell one by one. 

Through the king's gate, unquestioned then, 
A beggar went, and laughed, " This brings 

Me chance, at last, to see if men 
Fare better, being kings." 

The king sat bowed beneath his crown, 
Propping his face with listless hand ; 

Watching the hour-glass sifting down 
Too slow its shining sand. 

" Poor man, what wouldst thou have of me ? " 
The beggar turned, and, pitying, 

Rephed, like one in dream, "Of thee, 
Nothing. I want the king." 

Uprose the king, and from his head 

Shook off the crown and threw it by. 
" O man, thou must have known," he said, 
. "A greater king than I." 



VERSES. 



Through all the gates, unquestioned then, 
Went king and beggar hand in hand. 

Whispered the king, " Shall I know when 
Before his throne I stand ? " 

The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste 
Were wiping from the king's hot brow 

The crimson lines the crown had traced. 
" This is his presence now." 

At the kings's gate, the crafty noon 

Unwove its yellow nets of sun ; 
Out of their sleep in terror soon 

The guards waked one by one. 

" Ho here ! Ho there ! Has no man seen 
The king ?" The cry ran to and fro ; 

Beggar and king, they laughed, I ween, 
The laugh that free men know. 

On the king's gate the moss grew gray ; 

The king came not. They called him dead ; 
And made his eldest son one day 

Slave in his father's stead. 




MV NEW FRIEND. 



m 




MY NEW FRIEND. 

SHALLOW voice said, bitterly, "New 

friend ! " 
As if the old alone were true, and, born 
Of sudden freak, the new deserved but 
scorn 
And deep distrust. 

If love could condescend. 
What scorn in turn ! Do men old garments mend 
With new ? And put the new wine, red at morn, 
Into the last year's bottles, thin and worn 1 
But love and loving need not to defend 
Themselves. The new is older than the old ; 
And newest friend is oldest friend in this, 
That, waiting him, we longest grieved to miss 
One thing we sought. 

I think when I behold 
Full Heaven, I shall not say, " Why was this never 

told?" 
But, " Ah ! this is not new. From first I saw this 
bliss." 





112 VERSES. 



ASTERS AND GOLDEN ROD. 

KNOW the lands are lit 
With all the autumn blaze of Golden Rod ; 
And everywhere the Purple Asters nod 
And bend and wave and flit. 



But when the names I hear, 
I never picture how their pageant lies 
Spread out in tender stateliness of guise, 

The fairest of the year. 

I only see one nook, 
A wooded nook — half sun, half shade — 
Where one I love his footsteps sudden stayed, 

And whispered, " Darling, look ! " 

Two oak leaves, vivid green. 
Hung low among the ferns, and parted wide ; 
While purple Aster Stars, close side by side, 

Like faces peered between. 

Like maiden faces set 
In vine-wreathed window, waiting shy and glad 
For joys whose dim, -mysterious promise had 

But promise been, as yet. 

And, like proud lovers bent, 
In regal courtesy, as kings might woo, 
Tall Golden Rods, bareheaded in the dew, 

Above the Asters leant. 



TJVO LOVES. 113 

Ah, me ! Lands will be lit 
With every autumn's blaze of Golden Rod, 
And purple Asters everywhere will nod 

And bend and wave and flit ; 

Until, like ripened seed, 
This little earth itself, some noon, shall float 
Off into space, a tiny shining mote. 

Which none but God will heed ; 

But never more will be 
Sweet Asters peering through that branch of oak 
To hear such precious words as dear hps spoke 

That sunny day to me. 



TWO LOVES. 

OVE beckoned me to come more near. 
And wait, two women's songs to hear : 
The songs ran sweet, the songs ran clear ; 
It seemed they never could be done. 
One woman sat and sang in shade, 
Her still hands on her bosom laid ; 
The other sat and sang in sun. 

" I love my love," the one song said, 
" Because he lifts such kingly head, 
And walks with such a kingly tread, 




114 VERSES. 

That men kneel down, and men confess ; 
And women, in soft, sad surprise, 
Acknowledge, by their longing eyes, 

His beauty and his goodliness. 

" His glory is my soul's estate ; 
Breathless with love I watch and wait 
The hours of his triumphant fate, 

Knowing that far the greater part 
Of all his joy in all his fame 
Surrenders to my whispered name 

In secret places of his heart. 

" And oh ! I love my love again 
With love incredulous of pain, 
Because I know my beauty's chain 

Binds him so sure, binds him so fast. 
I know there is not one swift bhss 
Which men may know, that he can miss. 

Or say of it that it is past." 

This was her song, who sat in sun ; 
It seemed it never would be done, 
Unless its joy should all outrun 

Slow speech, and fall of its own weight ; 
As fountains their sweet source recall, 
And, pausing sudden, break and fall, 

In murmur inarticulate. 

The other song, more soft, more low, 
Out of the shade came floating slow, 
As autumn leaves swim to and fro 



TIVO LOVES. 115 

In golden seas of sunny air. 
Her meek hands on h.er bosom laid, 
Sign of the cross unwitting made ; 

The woman was not young nor fair. 

" I love my love," the low song said, 

Because his noble, kingly head 

Is bowed, while, with most patient tread, 

He walks hard paths. he did not choose, 
Smiling where other men would grieve. 
Heart-glad if other men receive 

Their fill of joys wMch he must lose. 

" I see each failure he must make, 

Each step he cannot but mistake ; • 

And, weeping for his foul's dear sake, ^ 

I set my faith with love's own seal, — 
Token of all which he might be, . 
Token of all he is to me, 

As God and my own heart reveaf. 

" And oh ! I love my love again, 
With love which is as strong as pain, • 
Because I know that by the chain 

Of beauty's bond I cannot bind ; 
The sweetest things which make men's bhss. 
In loving me, my love must miss, . . 

In loving me, he cannot find. * 

" So, fearing lest I may not feed 
Always his utmost want and need, 
In trust for her who can succeed 



Il6 VERSES. 

Where I must fail, his love's estate 
I solemn hold. Its rightful heir, 
A woman younger and more fair, 

Loving my love, 1 bide and wait." 

This was her song, who sat in shade, 
Her meek hands on her bosom laid, 
Sign of the cross unwitting made; 

She was not young, she was not fair : 
The sad notes floated sweet and slow. 
As autumn leaves swim to and fro 

On golden seas of sunny air. 

" O Love ! " I said, " which loveth best ? 
O Love, dear Love ! which wins thy rest t " 
But Love was gone^ and, in the west. 

The sun, which gave one woman sun. 
And gave the other woman shade. 
Sank down ; on each the cold night laid 

Its silence, and each song was done. 




THE GOOD SHEPHERD, 1 17 



THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 



;^ATE at night I saw the shepherd 
ij^|v| ToiHng slow along the hill, 
^M With a smile of joy and patience, 



Facing night winds strong and chill. 



In his arms and in his bosom 
Lay the lambs content and still. 



When the day broke, from the valley 
I looked up and saw no more 

Of the patient, smiling shepherd 
I had seen the night before ; 

But new mounds along the hillside 
Lay in sunshine, frozen hoar ! 





1 1 8 VERSES. 



LOVE'S FULFILLING. 

I^^l LOVE is weak 

Which counts the answers and the 

gains, 
Weighs all the losses and the pains, 
And eagerly each fond word drains 
A joy to seek. 

When Love is strong, 
It never tarries to take heed, 
Or know if its return exceed 
Its gift ; in its sweet haste no greed, 

No strifes belong. 

It hardly asks 
If it be loved at all ; to take 
So barren seems, when it can make 
Such bliss, for the beloved sake, 

Of bitter tasks. 

Its ecstasy 
Could find hard death so beauteous, 
It sees through tears how Christ loved us, 
And speaks, in saying " I love thus," 

No blasphemy. 

So much we miss 
If love is weak, so much we gain 



WOOED. 



119 



If love is strong, God thinks no pain 
Too sharp or lasting to ordain 
To teach us this. 



WOOED. 




I. 

ITH voice all confident, I knelt and cried, 
" Behold me at thy feet, O darling queen ! 
I kiss, round lowest hem, thy robe of 
green ; 

In all thy temples I have prophesied. 
And cast out devils in thy name. Confide 
In me. Lift up the veil that hangs between 
My eyes and thy dear face. Tell me what mean 
The voices of thy people." 

Far and wide 
The lovely queen's sweet kingdoms lie. I found 
My way to follow her to utmost bound 
Of all ; and listened, listened, nights and days, 
To every smallest sound on her highways ; 
But could not once her golden sceptre reach, 
Nor win the secret of her people's speech. 





J 20 VERSES. 

WON. 
II. 

EARIED at last, and sad, I cried, "Refuse 
Me what thou wilt, my queen ! At thy 

dear feet 
Henceforth I lie and sleep, and dream, and 
eat 
Thy locusts and wild honey. Thou mayst choose, 
Perhaps, that I the latchet of thy shoes 
One day unfasten. Ever incomplete 
Leave my desire, too bold, to see thy sweet, 
Unveiled face ; to know what words they use 
Who serve around thy throne." 

Lo ! as I lay. 
In such surrender, on that summer day. 
And sought not, stirred not, came the radiant queen, 
Sweeping me with her robe of leafy green. 
And kissed me everywhere that kiss could go ; 
While all her royal train I longed to know. 
The swallow leading, crowded up to teach 
Me all the secrets of their song and speech. 




THOUGHT. 



ARIADNE'S FAREWELL. 




HE daughter of a king, how should I know 
That there were tinsels wearing face of gold, 
And worthless glass, which in the sunlight's 
hold 

Could shameless answer back my diamond's glow 
With cheat of kindred fire ? The currents slow, 
And deep, and strong, and stainless, which had rolled 
Through royal veins for ages, what had told 
To them, that hasty heat and lie could show 
As quick and warm a red as theirs ? 

Go free ! 
The sun is breaking on the sea's blue shield 
Its golden lances ; by their gleam I see 
Thy ship's white sails. Go free, if scorn can yield 
Thee freedom ! 

Then, alone, my love and I, — 
We both are royal ; we know how to die. 



THOUGHT. 



MESSENGER, art thou the king, or I ? 
Thou dalliest outside the palace gate 
Till on thine idle armor lie the late 
And heavy dews : the morn's bright, scorn- 
ful eye 
Reminds thee ; then, in subtle mockery, 




122 VERSES. 

Thou smilest at the window where I wait, 
Who bade thee ride for life. In empty state 
My days go on, while false hours prophesy 
Thy quick return ; at last, in sad despair, 
I cease to bid thee, leave thee free as air ; 
When lo, thou stand'st before me glad and fleet, 
And lay'st undreamed-of treasures at my feet. 
Ah ! messenger, thy royal blood to buy, 
I am too poor. Thou art the king, not I. 



MORDECAI. 

AKE friends with him ! He is of royal line, 
Although he sits in rags. Not all of thine 
Array of splendor, pomp of high estate. 
Can buy him from his place within the gate, 
The king's gate of thy happiness, where he, 
Yes, even he, the Jew, remaineth free. 
Never obeisance making, never scorn 
Betraying of thy silver and new-born 
Delight. Make friends with him, for unawares 
The charmed secret of thy joys he bears ; 
Be glad, so long as his black sackcloth, late 
And early, thwarts thy sun ; for if in hate 
And haste thou plottest for his blood, thy own death 

cry. 
Not his, comes from the gallows fifty cubits high. 





LOCUSTS AND WILD HONEY. 123 



LOCUSTS AND WILD HONEY. 



HOSPITABLE wilderness, 
I know thy secret sign ; 

All human welcome seemeth less 
To me than thine. 



Such messengers to show me where 

Is water for my feet ; 
Such perfume poured upon my hair, 

Costly and sweet. 

Such couch, such canopy, such floor, 
Such royal banquet spread ; 

Such music through the open door, 
So little said. 

So much bestowed and understood. 
Such flavored courtesy, 

And only kings of unmixed blood 
For company. 

Such rhythmic tales of ancient lores, 
Of sweet and hidden things. 

Rehearsed by sacred troubadours 
On tireless wings. 

Such secrets of dominion set 
Unstinted for my choice, 



124 VERSES. 

Such mysteries, unuttered yet, 
Waiting a voice. 

O hospitable wilderness, 

For thee I long and pine ; 

All human welcome seemeth less 
To me than thine. 



A MOTHER'S FAREWELL TO A VOYAGER. 



sends love and good-by. She thinks she sees the four 



quarters of the globe when she looks into the faces of her four children. 
November 2, 1S68." 



[1 



R<r^^^ 




I AIL east, sail west, O wanderer, 
In east, in west, you cannot see 
Such suns as rise and set in these 
Four little faces round my knee. 



Blue as the north my first-born's eyes ; 

Her yellow hair hides brow of snow ; 
Like conquerors from the North she brought 

The sweet subjection mothers know. 

Glad and sad, and changed in an hour, 
My next girl's face is tropic sea. 

Where laden winds, whose secret none 
Can tell, sweep on unceasingly. 



''DROPPED DEADr 12$ 

Grave and searching, with hidden fire, 
My black-eyed boy kneels like a priest ; 

I know that, looking where he looks, 
We shall see the " Star in the East." 

No name as yet my baby has, 

Her rosy hands are just uncurled ; 

But with wet eyes we kiss her cheeks. 

And thank God for our sweet " new world.' 

Sail east, sail west, dear wanderer ! 

God cares for you and cares for me ; 
He knows for which of us 'twas best 

To stay with children round her knee. 
Steamship China, November 12, 1868. 




"DROPPED DEAD." 

LL royal strengths in life, until the end, 
Will bear themselves still royally. Degrees 
Of dying they know not : the muddy lees 
They will not drink: no man shall see 
them bend 
Or slacken in the storm : no man can lend 
To them. Those feeble souls who crouch on knees 
That fail, and cling to shadows of lost ease, 
Death tortures. But, as kings to kings may send, 
He challenges the strong. 

Such death as this 



126 



VERSES. 



O'ertakes great love ; a lesser love will miss 
Such stroke ; may dwindle painfully away, 
And fade, and simply cease to breathe, some day. 
But great loves, to the last, have pulses red ; 
All great loves that have ever died dropped dead. 



PRESENCE. 




NAMELESS thing ! which art and art not; 

spell 
Whose bond can bind the powers of the air, 
Compelling them thy face to hide or bear. 
O voice ! which, bringing not the faintest swell 
Of sound, canst in the air so crowd and dwell 
That all sounds die. O sight! which needst no share 
Of sun, which sav'st blind eyes from their despair, 
O touch ! which dost not touch, and yet canst tell 
To waiting flesh, by thy caress complete. 
The whole of love, till veins grow red with heat; 
O life of life ! to which graves are not girt 
With terror, and all death can bring no hurt. 
O mystery of blessing ! never lift 
Thy veil ! our one inalienable gift I 




TRUTH. 



POLAR DAYS. 

S some poor piteous Lapp., who under firs 
Which bend and break with load of arctic 

snows 
Has crept and crouched to watch when 
crimson glows 
Begin, feels in his veins the thrilling stirs 
Of warmer life, e'en while his fear deters 
His trust; and when the orange turns to rose 
In vain, and widening to the westward goes 
The ruddy beam and fades, heartsick defers 
His hope, and shivers through one more long night 
Of sunless day ; — 

So watching, one by one, 
The faintest glimmers of the morn's gray light, 
The sleepless exiled heart waits for the bright 
Full day, and hopes till all its hours are done, 
That the next one will bring its love, its sun. 



TRUTH. 

TRUTH, art thou relentless ? Wilt thou 
rest 

From solitude to solitude 
Eternally wilt thou escape ? Thy good 
And beauty lurmg us to fatal quest, 
Foredoomed to endless loss .'' 




128 



VERSES. 



O royal guest 
Of Nature's centuries, no spot so rude, 
So void, thy secret cannot there elude 
Our grasp ; no thing too subtle to attest 
Her royal sheltering ; from spheres to spheres 
Of light, through the incalculable years ; 
From force to force, through rock, through sound, 

through flame. 
Our worship wrests but echo of thy name. 
And builds at last, with patient stone, and sod, 
And tears, its altar " to the unknown God." 



HER EYES. 




HAT they are brown, no man will dare to 



say 
^^^' He knows, 
look 



And yet I think that no man's 



Ever those depths of light and shade forsook. 
Until their gentle pain warned him away. 
Of all sweet things I know but one which may 
Be likened to her eyes. 

When, in deep nook 
Of some green field, the water of a brook 
Makes lingering, whirling eddy in its way, 
Round soft drowned leaves ; and in a flash of sun 
They turn to gold, until the ripples run 



THE WALL-FLOWER OF ROME. 

Now brown, now yellow, changing as by some 
Swift spell. 

I know not with what body come 
The saints. But this I know, my Paradise 
Will mean the resurrection of her eyes. 



THE WALL-FLOWER OF THE RUINS OF 
ROME. 

GOLDEN-WINGED, on guard at crum- 
^,^1 bled gate 

^^j And fallen wall of emperors and kings, 

Whose very names are now forgotten things, 
Thou standest here, in faithfulness to wait 
The centuries through, and of the ancient state 
Keep up the semblance. Never footstep rings 
Across the stones ; and yet, if sun but flings 
One ray, a gleam, like gleam of burnished plate 
On mailed men, thy hands have lit, and sent 
Along the gra}' and tottering battlement. 
And flung out yellow banners, pricked with red, 
Which need not shame a royal house to spread. 
Ah, golden-winged, the whole of thy deep spell 
I cannot fathom, and thou wilt not tell. 

Rome, Italy, May 7, 1869. 




130 VERSES. 



SHADOWS OF BIRDS. 




N darkened air, alone with pain, 
I lay. Like links of heavy chain 
The minutes sounded, measuring day, 
And slipping lifelessly away. 
Sudden across my silent room 
A shadow darker than its gloom 
Swept swift ; a shadow slim and small 
Which poised and darted on the wall, 
And vanished quickly as it came ; 
A shadow, yet it lit like flame ; 
A shadow, yet I heard it sing. 
And heard the rustle of its wing. 
Till every pulse with joy was stirred ; 
It was the shadow of a bird ! 

Only the shadow \ Yet it made 

Full summer everywhere it strayed ; 

And every bird I ever knew 

Back and forth in the summer flew ; 

And breezes wafted over me 

The scent of every flower and tree ; 

Till I forgot the pain and gloom 

And silence of my darkened room. 

Now, in the glorious open air, 

I watch the birds fly here and there ; 



GLIMPSES. 131 

And wonder, as each swift wing cleaves 
The sky, if some poor soul that grieves 
In lonely, darkened, silent walls 
Will catch the shadow as it falls ! 



GLIMPSES. 

S when on some great mountain-peak we 
stand, 
In breathless awe beneath its dome of sky, 
Whose multiphed horizons seem to lie 
Beyond the bounds of earthly sea and land. 
We find the circled space too vast, too grand, 
And soothe our thoughts with restful memory 
Of sudden sunlit glimpses we passed by 
Too quickly, in our feverish demand 
To reach the height, — 

So, darling, when the brink 
Of highest heaven we reach at last, I think 
Even that great gladness will grow yet more glad. 
As we, with eyes that are no longer sad. 
Look back, while Life's horizons slowly sink. 
To some swift moments which on earth we had. 





132 



VERSES. 



TO A. C. L. B. 




HY house hath gracious freedom, h'ke the 



Of open fields ; its silence hath a speech 
Of royal welcome to the friends who reach 
Its threshold, and its upper chambers bear, 
Above their doors such spells, that, entering there 
And laying off the dusty garments, each 
Soul whispers to herself: " 'T were like a breach 
Of reverence in a temple could I dare 
Here speak untruth, here wrong my inmost thought. 
Here I grow strong and pure ; here I may yield, 
Without shamefacedness, the little brought 
From out my poorer life, and stand revealed, 
And glad, and trusting, in the sweet and rare 
And tender presence which hath filled this air." 



SNOW-DROPS IN ITALY. 




LOYAL vestals in this land of sun. 

Your white cheeks flush not, and your virgin 

eyes 
Vouchsafe no lifted look. In vain the skies 
Are red and pale with passion ; swift clouds run 
And beckon ; warm winds call ; long days are done 
And nights are spent, and still by no surprise, 
No lure .can ye be tempted ! 



DISTANCE. 133 

O, where lies 
The spell by which your gentleness can shun 
These heats ? Is it your hidden zone of gold ? 
Or in the emerald whose glimmers show, 
Scarce show, beneath your white robes' inner fold ? 
Vain question ! Still your calm bright peace ye hold ; 
And yet ye set my pulses all aglow 
With loyalty like yours to lands of snow. 

Rome, January 14, 1869. 



DISTANCE. 

SUBTILE secret of the air, 
Making the things that are not, fair 
Beyond the things that we can reach 
And name with names of clumsy speech ; 
By shadow-worlds of purple haze 
The sunniest of sunny days 
Outweighing in our hearts' delight ; 
Opening the eyes of blinded sight; 
Holding an echo in such hold, 
Bidding a hope such wings unfold, 
That present sounds and sights between 
Can come and go, unheard, unseen, — 
O subtile secret of the air. 
Heaven itself is heavenly fair 
By help of thee ! The saints' ^ood days 
Are good, because the good Lord lays 
No bound of shore along the sea 
Of beautiful Eternity. 




134 



VERSES. 



WHEN THE KINGS COME. 




HEN the Kings come to royal hunting-seats 
To find the royal joys of summer days, 
The servants on the lofty watch-tower raise 
A banner, whose swift token warning greets 
The country. Threatening stern, an armed man 

meets 
Each stranger, who, by pleasant forest-ways, 
All unawares, has rambled till he strays 
Too close to paths where, in the noonday heats, 
The King, uncrowned, lies down to sleep. Such law 
As this the human soul sets heart and face 
And hand, when once its King has come. In awe, 
And gladness too, all men behold what grace 
Such royal presence to the eye can bring, 
And how the heart and hand can guard their King. 
Berehtesgaden, Bavaria, July 20, 1869. 



COMING ACROSS. 




VERY sail is full set, and the sky 
And the sea blaze with light, 
And the moon mid her virgins glides on 
As St. Ursula might; 
And the throb of the pulse never stops, 
In the heart of the ship, 



THE TEACHER. 



35 



As her measures of water and fire 

She drinks down at a sip. 
Yet I never can think, as I lie, 

And so wearily toss, 
That by saint, or by star, or by ship, 

I am coming across ; 

But by hght which I know in dear eyes 

That are bent on the sea. 
And the touch I remember of hands 

That are waiting for me. 
By the hght of the eyes I could come, 

If the stars should all fail ; 
And I think, if the ship should go down, 

That the hands would prevail. 
Ah ! my darlings, you never will know 

How I pined in the loss 
Of you all, and how breathless and glad 

I am coming across. 

Steamship Russia, January 22, 1870. 



THE TEACHER. 



HE people listened, with short, indrawn 
breath, 
And eyes that were too steady set for tears, 
This one man's speech rolled off great loads 
of fears 
From every heart, as sunlight scattereth 




136 VERSES. 

The clouds ; hard doubts, which had been born of 

death, 
Shone out as rain-drops shine when rainbow clears 
The air. " O teacher," then I said, " thy years, 
Are they not joy ? Each word that issueth 
From out thy lips, doth it return to bless 
Thy own heart many fold ? " 

With weariness 
Of tone he answered, and almost with scorn, 
" I am, of all, most lone in loneliness ; 
I starve with hunger treading out their corn ; 
I die of travail while their souls are born." 




DECORATION DAY. 



HE Eastern wizards do a wondrous thing, 
Which travellers, having seen, scarce dare 

to tell : 
Dropping a seed in earth, by subtle spell 
Of hidden heat they force the germ to spring 
To instant Hfe and growth ; no faltering 
'Twixt leaf and flower and fruit ; they rise and swell 
To perfect shape and size, as if there fell 
Upon them all which seasons hold and bring. 
But Love far greater magic shows to-day : 
Lifting its feeble hands, which can but reach 



DECORATION DAY. 137 

The hands-breadth up, it stretches all the way 
From earth to heaven, and, triumphant, each 
Sweet wilting blossom sets, before it dies, 
Full in the sight of smiling angels' eyes. 



II. 

But, ah ! the graves which no man names or knows ; 
Uncounted graves, which never can be found ; 
Graves of the precious " missing," where no sound 
Of tender weeping will be heard, where goes 
No loving step of kindred. O, how flows 
And yearns our thought to them ! More holy ground 
Of graves than this, we say, is that whose bound 
Is secret till eternity disclose 
Its sign. 

But Nature knows her wilderness ; 
There are no "missing" in her numbered ways. 
In her great heart is no forgetfulness. 
Each grave she keeps she will adorn, caress. 
We cannot lay such wreaths as Summer lays, 
And all her days are Decoration Days ! 




13S FEJ^SES. 



A THIRTEENTH-CENTURY PARABLE. 



HEN good Saint Louis reigned in France as 
iM king, 




And William, Bishop of Paris, ministering 
To all the churches, kept them pure and glad, 
There came one day a learned man, who had 
Journeyed from distant provinces to find 
His Bishop and unload his burdened mind. 
Entering the Bishop's presence, he began 
To speak : but sobs choked all his voice ; tears ran 
Like rain from out his eyes, and no words came 
To tell his grief. Then said the Bishop : 

" Shame 
Not thyself so deeply, Master : no man 
So sins but that the gracious Jesus can 
Forgive an hundred thousand fold more guilt 
Than his, and cleanse it by his dear blood spilt." 
'' I tell you. Sire," the Master said, " I must 
Forever weep : I am accursed. I trust 
Not in the holy altar-sacrament, 
As taught to us ; I cannot but dissent 
From all the- Church doth say of it : and yet 
I know my doubts are but temptations set 
By Satan's self, to sink my soul to hell. 
O Sire, I am a wretched Infidel." 
Then said the gentle Bishop: 

" This one thing 
Tell me, O honest Master, do they bring 



THIRTEENTH-CENTURY PARABLE. 139 

Thee pleasure, these dark doubts ? " 

" O, no ! my Sire," 
The weeping Master said : " they burn like fire 
Within my bones." 

" And could thy lips to speak 
Thy doubts be bought by gold ? And would'st thou 

seek 
To shake a brother's faith ? " 

" I, Sire ! " exclaimed 
The Master. " I ! I would be bruised and maimed. 
And torn from limb to limb, ere I would say 
Such words." 

Then said the Bishop, smihng : "Lay 
Aside now for a space thy grief and fear, 
And listen. Soon my meaning will appear, 
Though it be strangely hid at first below 
My words. 

Thou know'st that war is raging now 
Between the King of England and of France ; 
Thou know'st that of our castles greatest chance 
Of loss has La Rochelle, there in Poitou, 
Lying so near the border. If to you 
The King had given La Rochelle to hold. 
And unto me — no less true man and bold, 
Perhaps — the Castle of Laon to keep. 
Far in the heart of France, where I might sleep 
All day, all night, unharmed, if so I chose, — 
So safe beyond the reach of all our foes 
Lies Laon, — when the war is ended, who 
Ought from the King to have the most thanks ? 

You, 



I40 VEKSES. 

Who La Rochelle had saved by bloody fights, 
Or I, who spent in Laon peaceful nights ? " 
" In faith, Sire, I, who guarded La Rochelle ! " 
The wondering Master cried. 

" So, then, I tell 
Thee," said the Bishop, in most gentle tone, 
" My heart is like the Castle of Laon. 
Temptations, doubts, cannot my soul assail. 
Therefore, I say that thou, who dost prevail 
Against such foes of Satan's mustering. 
Art four times pleasing to the Heavenly King, 
Where I am once ; and thy good fortress, kept, 
Shall win thee glory such as saints have wept 
To win ! Go, joyful ! Put thy sorrow by. 
Thou art far dearer to the Lord than I." 
Scarce dared the Master trust such words as these ; 
But silent, grateful, fell upon his knees 
Until the Bishop blessed him. Then he went 
Away in solemn wonder and content. 

They lie in graves, the saints who knew this tale, 

The King, the Bishop, and the Seneschil, 

And he who doubted, — rest their souls in peace ! — 

And even mention of their names men cease 

To make. But, knowing all, as they must know, 

Of God, who roam his universes through, 

Untrammelled spirits, they could tell to men 

To-day no deeper truth than was told then, 

To cheer and comfort him who fighteth well 

To save a heart besieged like La Rochelle. 



FORM. 141 



FORM. 




HIDDEN secret of all things ! 
Thy triumph, most triumphant, brings 
No sound of syllable of name 
To mark the law by which it came ; 
The subtle point of difference, 
Which made the joy of joy intense, 
The grief of grief too great to bear, 
Beauty than beauty's self more fair. 

No skill does more, at best, than work 
Blindly, in hope to find where lurk 
Thy undiscovered charm and spell ; 
No prophecies thine hour foretell ; 
No hindrances thine hour avert ; 
No purpose brings thee good or hurt ; 
Thy life knows not of wish or will ; 
Inherent growths thy growth fulfil. 

No man dared say to curve, to line, 
« Be beautiful, by word of mine ! 
I crown thee lovely on the earth ! 
I am thy Lord of life and birth." 
Before all men the line, the curve, 
Stood suddenly, and said : 

" Preserve 

What joy ye can. O blind of eye ! 
Behold us once before ye die " "" 



, I " 



142 VERSES. 

O hidden secret of all things ! 
O kingdom earlier than kings ! 
Before earth was, yea, and before 
The Heavens, Eternity forbore 
All haste, waiting each sign and bond, 
For seal of thee, to set beyond 
All time's impatience the decree 
And record of thy sovereignty ! " 



MY HICKORY FIRE. 

HELPLESS body of hickory tree, 
What do I burn, in burning thee ? 
Summers of sun, winters of snow, 
Springs full of sap's resistless flow ; 
All past year's joys of garnered fruits ; 
All this year's purposed buds and shoots ; 
Secrets of fields of upper air, 
Secrets which stars and planets share ; 
Light of such smiles as broad skies fling ; 
Sound of such tunes as wild winds sing ; 
Voices which told where gay birds dwelt, 
Voices which told where lovers knelt ; — 
O strong white body of hickory tree, 
How dare I burn all these, in thee ? 

But I too bring, as to a pyre. 
Sweet things to feed thy funeral fire : 
Memories waked by thy deep spell ; 
Faces of fears and hopes which fell ; 




MY HICKORY TREE. ^43 

Faces of darlings long since dead, — 

Smiles that they smiled, and words they said ; 

Like living shapes they come and go, 

Lit by the mounting flame's red glow. 

But sacredest of all, O tree, 

Thou hast the hour my love gave me. 

Only thy rhythmic silence stirred 

While his low-whispered tones I heard ; 

By thy last gleam of flickering light 

I saw his cheek turn red from white ; 

O cold gray ashes, side by side 

With yours, that hour's sweet pulses died ! 

But thou, brave tree, how do I know 
That through these fires thou dost not go 
As in old days the martyrs went 
Through fire which was a sacrament ? 
How do I know thou dost not wait 
In longing for thy next estate ? — 
Estate of higher, nobler place. 
Whose shapes no man can use or trace. 
How do I know, if I could reach 
The secret meaning of thy speech. 
But I thy song of praise should hear. 
Ringing triumphant, loud, and clear, — 
The waiting angels could discern, 
And token of thy heaven learn ? 
O glad, freed soul of hickory tree, 
Wherever thine eternity, 
Bear thou with thee that hour's dear name. 
Made pure, like thee, by rites of flame ! 



144 VERSES. 



REVENUES. 




SMILE to hear the httle kings 
When they count up their precious things, 
And send their vaunting lists abroad, 
Of what their kingdoms can afford. 
One boasts his corn, and one his wine. 
And one his gold and silver fine ; 
One by an army, one by a fleet, 
Keeps neighbor kings beneath his feet ; 
One sets his claim to highest place 
On looms of silk and looms of lace ; 
And one shows pictures of old saints 
In lifehke tints of wondrous paints ; 
And one has quarries of white stone 
From which rare statue shapes have grown ; 
And so, by dint of wealth or grace, 
Striving to keep the highest place. 
They count and show their precious things. 
The Httle race of little kings. 

'' O little kings ! " I long to say, 
" Who counts God's revenues to-day ? 
Who knows on all the hills and coasts 
Names of the captains of his hosts ? 
What eye has seen the half of gold 
His smallest mine has in its hold? 
What figures tell one summer's cost 
Of fabrics which are torn and tost 



REVENUES. 145 

To clothe his myriads of trees ? 
Who reckons, in the sounding seas, 
The shining corals, wrought and graved, 
With which his ocean floors are paved ? 
Who knows the numbers or the names 
Of colors in his sunset flames ? 
What table measures, marking weight, 
What chemistries can estimate 
One single banquet for his birds ?" 
Then, mocked by all which utmost words 
And utmost thoughts can frame or reach, 
My heart finds tears its only speech. 
In ecstasy, part joy, part pain. 
Where fear and wonder half restrain 
Love's gratitude, I lay my ear 
Close to the ground, and hstening hear 
This noiseless, ceaseless, boundless tide 
Of earth's great wealth, on every side, 
Rolling and pouring up to break 
At feet of God, who will not take 
Nor keep among his heavenly things 
So much as tithe of all it brings ; 
But instant turns the costly wave. 
Gives back to earth all that it gave, 
Spends all his universe of power 
And pomp to deck one single hour 
Of time, and then in largess free. 
Unasked, bestows the hour on me. 




146 VERSES. 



A BURIAL SERVICE. 

^^^^O this burying 

We come alone, — you and I, — not with 

our dead, 
But with our dearest living ; O, could mor- 
tal tread 
Be unfaltering ! 

God knows how we love it, 
This we have come to bury ; the eyes smile, — life's 

best wine 
The hands hold out ! Darling, shall it be yours, or 
mine. 

To lay the first sod above it ? 

But no decaying 
Can reach it in this sepulchre, whose stone 
Our hearts must make ! To an exceeding glory grown, 

This grief, outweighing, 

Not even regretting. 
It will await us ! Thank God, not being sown 
In any dishonor, it will await its own, 

Never forgetting ! 

To Christ's protection 
Now let us leave it, — the tomb and the key ! He 
Will remember us, if there may ever be 

Resurrection ! 




A PARABLE. 147 



A PARABLE. 

AR in the wood I found a vine, so sweet 
Of flower and leaf that, loving it, I stayed 
To learn its secret. Thick around its feet 
Grew thorny briers, and tangled saplings 
made 
On every side of it too dark a shade. 
One tendril by a dead branch held. The rest 
Were folded like proud arms upon its breast. 

The rough wind beat it down ; it did not break, 
But, lying low until the storm went by. 
Lifted its head again. Still it would take 
No help ; but, shaking off with scornful eye 
The dust, rose slowly, looking to the sky, 
Borne up by hidden forces of its own, 
And stood again erect, a vine, alone 

Far in the wood I whispered then, afraid 

The question showed not all my love, " O vine, 

Brave vine, so sweet and yet so strong, what made 

It easy unto thee ? No sun can shine 

To warm thee in this cold, unwholesome shade. 

Why standest thou apart from all the rest, 

Thy slender proud arms folded on thy breast .'* " 

Filling the wood, this subtile whisper then 
My reverent listening heard ; 



148 



VERSES. 



" My love, the Oak, 
Has died. Never before his name to men 
Who, idly questioning, passed by. I spoke. 
But thou, — thou lov'st like me ; thy secret woke 
My own. Thou knovv'st to a less lordly thing 
The tendrils torn from oaks will never cling." 



FRIENDS. 



TO 

A. E. P. 




E rode a day, from east, from west, 
To meet. A year had done its best, 
By absence, and by loss of speech, 
To put beyond the other's reach 
Each heart and life ; but, drawing nigh, 
" Ah ! it is you ! " " Yes, it is I ! " 
We said ; and love had been blasphemed 
And slain in each had either deemed 
Need of more words, or joy more plain 
When eyes had looked in eyes again : 
Ah friendship, stronger in thy might 
Than time and space, as faith than sight ! 
Rich festival with thy red wine 
M}^ friend and I will keep in courts divine !.. 



MARCH. 



149 




THE ROYAL BEGGAR. 

MARVEL strange ! outside the palace 

doors, 
And begging humbly from the palace stores, 
He stands and waits ; and when a paltry 
crust 
Is flung, he stoops and picks it from the dust, 
And, smiling through his tears, clasps to his breast 
The niggard boon ; and. for the moment blest 
And fed, is grateful, though the ruby wine 
And milk and honey which, by right divine, 
Are his, his only, and the crown of gold 
God wrought for him, are to his rightful hold 
Refused ! 

Ah Love, dear Love, nowhere on earth 
Wanders uncrowned thy peer of royal birth ! 
Ah Love, great Love ! Denied, thrust out in vain, 
Kingly, though beggared ! Blest through all the pain ! 



MARCH. 




ENEATH the sheltering walls the thin snow 
clings, — 



Dead winter's skeleton, left bleaching, 
' white, 

Disjointed, crumbling, on unfriendly fields. 
The inky pools surrender tardily 



15° VERSES. 

At noon, to patient herds, a frosty drink 

From jagged rims of ice ; a subtle red 

Of life is kindling every twig and stalk 

Of lowly meadow growths ; the willows wrap 

Their stems in furry white ; the pines grow gray 

A little in the biting wind ; midday 

Brings tiny burrowed creatures, peeping out 

Alert for sun. 

Ah March ! we know thou art 
Kind-hearted, spite of ugly looks and threats, 
And, out of sight, art nursing April's violets ! 



APRIL. 



m 




^^OBINS call robins in tops of trees ; 

Doves follow doves, with scarlet feet ; 
Frolicking babies, sweeter than these, 
Crowd green corners where highways 
meet. 



Violets stir and arbutus wakes, 
Claytonia's rosy bells unfold ; 

Dandelion through the meadow makes 
A royal road, with seals of gold. 

Golden and snowy and red the flowers, 
Golden, snowy, and red in vain ; 

Robins call robins through sad showers ; 
The white dove's feet are wet with rain. 



AIAV, 151 

For April sobs while these are so glad, 
April weeps while these are so gay, — 

Weeps like a tired child who had, 
Playing with flowers, lost its way. 




MAY. 

I HE voice of one who goes before to make 
11^1 The paths of June more beautiful, is thine, 
Sweet May ! Without an envy of her crown 
And bridal ; patient stringing emeralds 
And shining rubies for the brows of birch 
And maple ; flinging garlands of pure white 
And pink, which to their bloom add prophecy ; 
Gold cups o'er-filling on a thousand hills 
And calling honey-bees ; out of their sleep 
The tiny summer harpers with bright wings 
Awaking, teaching them their notes for noon ; — 
O May, sweet-voiced one, going thus before. 
Forever June may pour her warm red wine 
Of life and passion, — sweeter days are thine ! 




152 



VERSES. 




THE SIMPLE KING. 

HE king, the royal, simple king, 
Whom in bold lovingness I sing, 
Will not be buried when he dies. 
As kings are buried. Where he lies, 

No regal monument will show ; 

No worldly pilgrim-feet will go ; 

No heraldry, with blazoned sign, 

Will keep the record of his line. 

No man will know his kingdom's bound ; 

No man his subjects' grief will sound. 

His crown will not lie low with him ; 

His crown will never melt nor dim. 



This king, this royal, simple king, 

Whose kingliness I kneel to sing, 

Looks on all other men with eyes 

Which are as calm as suns that rise 

Alike, and bring an equal gain 

To just and unjust. Like soft rain 

His gentle kindhness, but deep 

As waters, in which oceans keep 

Their treasures. Silent, warm, and white 

As mid-day is his love's great light ; 

But in its faithful summer saves 

For every smallest flower that waves 

Such shelter that it cannot die 

Nor droop, while love's fierce noons pass by. 



THE SIMPLE KING. 153 

This king, this royal, simple king, 

Whose kingliness I cannot sing, 

Speaks words which are decrees, because 

They come as questions, not as laws. 

Himself devoutest worshipper 

At Truth's great shrine, his least acts stir 

The people's hearts, as when of old 

The High Priest, lifting veil of gold. 

Came from the ark's most sacred place, 

And only by his shining face 

Revealed to them without that he 

Had seen the Godhead bodily. 

Men serve him ; but while they obey 

Feel no oppression in the sway. 

His royal hand is burdened too ; 

No load of theirs to him is new ; 

No sting or stigma in a bond 

To him whose vision looks beyond 

All names and shapes of numbered days, 

All accidents of human ways. 

And, superseding signs and shrifts 

Of all allegiances, lifts 

Service to Freedom's regal plane 

Beyond compulsion or disdain. 

This king, this royal, simple king. 
Whose kingliness I love and sing, 
Has not much silver or much gold : 
Told as kings' treasuries are told, 
Beggar's estate he must confess. 
But all the lavish wilderness 



154 VERSES. 

Sets state for him. Tall pine-trees bend ; 
Strange birds sing songs which never end 
The sunset and the sunrise sweep 
Backward and forward swift, to keep 
Fresh glory round his pathway. Then, 
Of sudden men discover, when 
They journey thither by his side. 
What pomp and splendor are supplied 
By Nature's smallest, subtlest thing, 
To hail and crown the simple king. 
Yea ! and the dull and stony street. 
And walls within which rich men meet, 
Cities, and all they compass, grow 
Significant, when to and fro 
The simple king, unrecognized, 
Unenvious, and unsurprised, 
Walks smihngly, and as he treads 
Unconscious benediction spreads. 

Ah ! king, thou royal, simple king ! 
Not as by any grave I sing ; 
Neither by any present throne ; 
King crowned to-day, king who hast gone. 
In ki ugliness one and the same ! 
The house runs not by race or name ; 
No day but sees, no land but knows ; 
The kingdom lasts, the kingdom grows ; 
God holds earth dearer and more dear, 
God's sons come nearer and more near. 




THE SINGER'S FRIENDS. I55 



THE SINGER'S FRIENDS. 

|E roamed the earth with lonely feet; 
No homestead lured him back ; 
Lands are so full ; hfe is so sweet ; 
Such skies and suns forever meet 
To make each day's great joy complete ; 
'Twas strange that he so much must lack. 

'Twas stranger yet that joy could still 

His bosom overflow ; 
That smallest things his soul could fill 
With ecstasy and song, whose thrill 
No pain could hinder or could chill, 

As lonely he went to and fro. 

But ever if there came a day, 

Which on his joy and song 
So heavy load of sorrow lay 
That heart and voice could not obey, 
And feet refused the lonely way. 

So lonely, and so hard, and long. 

It always chanced, — though chance is not 

The word when God befriends, — 
That on such days to him was brought 
Echo from some old song, forgot, 
Which sudden made his lonely lot 
Seem cast for worthier, sweeter ends. 



6 VERSES. 

Some stranger whose sad eyes were wet 

With tears, would take his hands, 
Saying, " O Singer, my great debt 
To thee I never can forget. 
My grief in thy grief's words was set, 

And comforted forever stands." 

Or else he heard, borne on the air 

Where merry music rang. 
Making the fair day still more fair, 
Lifting the burden off of care. 
Old words of his that did their share, 

While happy people laughed and sang. 

Or else, — O, sacredest of all, 

And sweetest recompense, — 
Love used his words, its love to call 
By name : of his dead joy, the thrall 
Waked live joy still, and could forestall 

Love's utmost passion's subtlest sense. 

So when at last, in lonely grave, 

He laid his lonely head. 
No loving heart more tears need crave ; 
Nowhere more sacred grasses wave ; 
All human hearts to whom he gave 

Grieved like friends' hearts when he was dead. 



DOUBT. 157 



DOUBT. 




HEY bade me cast the thing away, 
They pointed to my hands all bleeding, 
They listened not to all my pleading ; 
The thing I meant I could not say ; 

I knew that I should rue the day 

•If once I cast that thing away. 

I grasped it firm, and bore the pain ; 
The thorny husks I stripped and scattered ; 
If I could reach its heart, what mattered 

If other men saw not my gain, 

Or even if I should be slain ? 

I knew the risks ; I chose the pain. 

O, had I cast that thing away, 
I had not found what most I cherish, 
A faith without which I should perish, — 
The faith which, like a kernel, lay 
Hid in the husks which on that day 
My instinct would not throw away ! 



Kmr^ 



158 



VERSES. 



FORGIVE. 




DREAMED so dear a dream of you last 
night ! 
I thought you came. I was so glad, so gay, 
I whispered, "Those were foolish words 
to say : 
I meant them not. I cannot bear the sight 
Of your dear face. I cannot meet the light 
Of your dear eyes upon me. Sit, I pray, — 
Sit here beside me : turn your look away. 
And lay your cheek on mine." Till morning bright 
We sat so, and we did not speak. I knew 
All was forgiven ; so I nestled there 
With your arms round. Swift the sweet hours flew. 
At last I waked, and sought you everywhere. 
How long, dear, think you, that my glad cheek will 
Burn, — as it burns with your cheek's pressure still } 



THIS SUMMER. 




THOUGHT I knew all Summer knows, 

So many summers I had been 
Wed to Summer. Could I suppose 
One hidden beauty still lurked in 
Her days ? that she might still disclose 
New secrets, and new homage win ? 

Could new looks flit across the skies ? 
Could water ripple one new sound ? 



THIS SUMMER. ^59 

Could stranger bee or bird that flies 
With yet new languages be found, 

To bring me, to my glad surprise, 
Message from yet remoter bound ? 

O sweet " this Summer ! " Songs which sang 

Summer before no longer mean 
The whole of summer. Bells which rang 

But minutes have marked years between. 
Purple the grapes of Autumn hang : 

My sweet " this Summer " still is green. 

"This Summer" still, — forgetting all 
Before and since and aye, — I say, 

And shall say, when the deep snows fall, 
And cold suns mark their shortest day. 

New calendar, my heart will call ; 

" This Summer " still ! Summer alway ! 

And when God's next sweet world we reach, 
And the poor words we stammered here 

Are fast forgot, while angels teach 
Us spirit language quick and clear, 

Perhaps some words of earthly speech 
We still shall speak, and still hold dear. 

And if some time in upper air 

On swiftest wings we sudden meet, 

And pause with answering smiles which share 
Our joy, I think that we shall greet 

Each other thus : " This world is fair ; 
But ah ! that Summer too was sweet !" 



i6o 



VERSES. 



TRYST. 




OMEWHERE thou avvaitest, 
And I, with lips unkissed, 
Weep that thus to latest 

Thou puttest off our tryst ! 



The golden bowls are broken, 
The silver cords untwine ; 

Almond flowers in token 

Have bloomed, — that I am thine ! 

Others who would fly thee 

In cowardly alarms, 
Who hate thee and deny thee, 

Thou foldest in thine arms ! 

How shall I entreat thee 

No longer to withhold ? 
I dare not go to meet thee, 

O lover, far and cold ! 



O lover, whose lips chilling 
So many lips have kissed. 

Come, even if unwilling. 

And keep thy solemn tryst ! 




THE MAGIC ARMORY. i6i 



THE MAGIC ARMORY. 

O man can shut the open door ; 
Strange hieroglyphs of mystic lore 
Are writ on it from beam to sill ; 
The gleams and shapes of weapons fill 

Its silent chambers : field and fray 

Of centuries have borne away 

Its armor to their victories, 

And yet to-day the armor lies 

Unstained and bright and whole and good, 

For each man's utmost hardihood. 

All men go freely out and in, 

And choose their arms to fight and win ; 

But one man goes with silly hands, 

And helpless, halting, choosing stands, 

And from the glittering, deadly steels. 

Fits him with clumsy sword, and deals 

A feeble, witless, useless blow. 

Which hurts no friend and helps no foe. 

Close by his side his brother makes 

Swift choice, unerringly, and takes 

From those same chambers hilt and blade 

With which more magic sword is made 

Than that far-famed which armed the hand 

Of Lion-Heart in Eastern land. 

So fight and fray the centuries, 

The right and truth with wrong and lies ; 



1 62 VERSES. 

So men go freely out and in, 
And choose their arms, and lose and win 
And none can shut the open door, 
All writ with signs of mystic lore. 
Where weapons stout and old and good 
For each man's utmost hardihood 
Lie ready, countless, priceless, free, 
Within the magic armory. 



LIFTED OVER. 

IS tender mothers guiding baby steps, 
When places come at which the tiny feet 
Would trip, lift up the little ones in arms 
Of love, and set them down beyond the 
harm. 
So did Our Father watch the precious boy, 
Led o'er the stones by me, who stumbled of 
Myself, but strove to help my darling on : 
He saw the sweet limbs faltering, and saw 
Rough ways before us, where my arms would fail ; 
So reached from heaven, and lifting the dear child, 
Who smiled in leaving me, He put him down 
Beyond all hurt, beyond my sight, and bade 
Him wait for me ! Shall I not then be glad, 
And, thanking God, press on to overtaice ? 





MY HOUSE NOT MADE WITH HANDS. 163 



MY HOUSE NOT MADE WITH HANDS. 

T is so old, the date is dim ; 
I hear the wise man vexing him 
With effort vain to count and read, 
But to his words I give small heed, 
Except of pity that so late 
He sitteth wrangling in the gate, 
When he might come with me inside, 
And in such peace and plenty bide. 
The constant springs and summers thatch, 
With leaves that interlock and match, 
Such roof as keeps out fiercest sun 
And gentle rain, but one by one 
Lets in blue banner-gleams of sky 
As pomp of day goes marching by 
Under these roofs I lie whole days. 
Watching the steady household ways : 
Innumerable creatures come 
And go, and are far more at home 
Than I, who like dumb giant sit 
Baffled by all their work and wit. 
No smallest of them condescends 
To notice me ; their hidden ends 
They follow, and above, below, 
Across my bulky shape they go. 
With swift, sure feet, and subtle eyes, 
Too keen and cautious for surprise 
In vain I try their love to reach ; 



164 VERSES. 

Not one will give me trust or speech. 
No second look the furry bee 
Gives, as he bustles round, to me ; 
Before my eyes slim spiders take 
Their silken ladders out and make 
No halt, no secret, scaling where 
They like, and weaving scaffolds there •, 
The beaded ants prick out and in, 
Mysterious and dark and thin ; 
With glittering spears and gauzy mail 
Legions of insects dart and sail. 
Swift Bedouins of the pathless air, 
Finding rich plunder everywhere ; 
Sweet birds, with motion more serene 
Than stillest rest, soar up between 
The fleecy clouds, then, sinking slow, 
Light on my roof. I do not know 
That they are there till fluttering 
Low sounds, like the unravelling 
Of tight-knit web, their soft wings make, 
Unfurling further flight to take. 
All through my house is set out food, 
Ready and plenty, safe and good, 
In vessels made of cunning shapes, 
Whose liquid spicy sweet escapes 
By drops at brims of yellow bowls, 
Or tips of trumpets red as coals, 
Or cornucopias pink and white, 
By millions set in circles tight ; 
Red wine turned jelly, and in moulds 
Of pointed calyx laid on folds 



MY HOUSE NOT MADE WITH HANDS. 165 

Of velvet green ; fruit-grains of brown, 
Like dusty shower thickly strewn 
On underside of fronds, and hid 
Unless one lift the carven lid ; 
And many things which in my haste 
And ignorance I reckon waste, 
Unsightly and unclean, I find 
Are but delicious food, designed 
For travellers who come each day. 
And eat, and drink, and go their way. 
I am the only one who need 
Go hungry where so many feed ; 
My birthright of protection lost, 
Because of fathers' sins the cost 
Is counted in the children's blood : 
I starve where once I might have stood 
Content and strong as bird or bee. 
Feeding like them on flower or tree. 
When I have hunger, I must rise 
And seek the poisons I despise, 
Leaving untouched on every hand 
The sweet wild foods of air and land, 
And leaving all my happier kin 
Of beasts and birds behind to win 
The great rewards which only they 
Can win who Nature's laws obey. 

Under these roofs of waving thatch, 
Lying whole days to dream and watch, 
I find myself grow more and more 
. Vassal of summer than before ; 



i66 VERSES. 



Allegiances I thought were sworn 

For h'fe I break with hate and scorn. 

One thing alone I hope, desire : 

To make my human life come nigher 

The life these lead whose silent gaze 

Reproaches me and all my ways ; 

To glide along as they all glide. 

Submissive and unterrified, 

Without a thought of loss or gain, 

Without ajar of haste or pain, 

And go, without one quickened breath. 

Finding all realms of life, of death, 

But summer hours in sunny lands. 

To my next house not made with hands. 



MY STRAWBERRY. 

MARVEL, fruit of fruits, I pause 
To reckon thee. I ask what cause 
Set free so much of red from heats 
'At core of earth, and mixed such sweets 

With sour and spice : what was that strength 

Which out of darkness, length by length, 

Spun all thy shining thread of vine, 

Netting the fields in bond as thine. 

I see thy tendrils drink by sips 

From grass and clover's smiling lips ; 

I hear thy roots dig down for wells, 

Tapping the meadow's hidden cells ; 
Whole generations of green things, 




i67 



TRIUMPH. 

Descended from long lines of springs, 
I see make room for thee to bide 
A quiet comrade by their side ; 
I see the creeping peoples go 
Mysterious journeys to and fro, 
Treading to right and left of thee, 
Doing thee homage wondenngly. 
I see the wild bees as they fare, 
Thy cups of honey drink, but spare. 
I mark thee bathe and bathe again 
In sweet uncalendared spring rain. 
I watch how all May has of sun 
Makes haste to have thy ripeness done, 
While all her nights let dews escape 
To set and cool thy perfect shape. 
Ah, fruit of fruits, no more I pause 
To dream and seek thy hidden laws ! 
1 stretch my hand and dare to taste, 
In instant of delicious waste 
On single feast, all things that went 
To make the empire thou hast spent. 



TRIUMPH. 

;'0T he who rides through conquered city's 
gate, 
At head of blazoned hosts, and to the sound 
Of victors' trumpets, in full pomp and state 
Of war, the utmost pitch has dreamed or found 
To which the thrill of triumph can be wound; 




1 68 VERSES. 

Nor he, who by a nation's vast acclaim 
Is sudden sought and singled out alone, 
And while the people madly shout his name, 
Without a conscious purpose of his own, 
Is swung and lifted to the nation's throne ; 

But he who has all single-handed stood 
With foes invisible on every side, 
And, unsuspected of the multitude, 
The force of fate itself has dared, defied, 
And conquered silently. 

Ah that soul knows 
In what white heat the blood of triumph glows ! 



RETURN TO THE HILLS. 

IKE a music of triumph and joy 
Sounds the roll of the wheels, 
And the breath of the engine laughs out 
In loud chuckles and peals, 
Like the laugh of a man that is glad 

Coming homeward at night ; 
I lean out of the window and nod 

To the left and the right. 
To my friends in the fields and the woods ; 

Not a face do I miss ; 
The sweet asters and browned golden-rod, 

And that stray clematis. 
Of all vagabonds dearest and best, 
In most seedy estate ; 




RETURN TO THE HILLS. 169 

I am sure they all recognize me ; 

If I only could wait, 
I should hear all the welcome which now 

In their faces I read, 
" O true lover of us and our kin, 

We all bid thee God speed ! " 

O my mountains, no wisdom can teach 

Me to think that ye care 
Nothing more for my steps than the rest, 

Or that they can have share 
Such as mine in your royal crown-lands, 

Unencumbered of fee ; 
In your temples with altars unhewn, 

Where redemption is free ; 
In your houses of treasure, which gold 

Cannot buy if it seek ; 
And your oracles, mystic with words, 

Which men lose if they speak ! 

Ah ! with boldness of lovers who wed 

I make haste to your feet, 
And as constant as lovers who die, 

My surrender repeat ; 
And I take as the right of my love, 

And I keep as its sign, 
An ineffable joy in each sense 

And new strength as from wine, 
A seal for all purpose and hope. 

And a pledge of full light. 
Like a pillar of cloud for my day, 

And of fire for my night. 



170 VERSES. 



DOWN TO SLEEP.' 



^^TP^OVEMBER woods are bare and still ; 
' " " ' November days are clear and bright ; 
Each noon burns up the morning's chil 
The morning's snow is gone by night ; 
Each day my steps grow slow, grow light, 
As through the woods I reverent creep, 
Watching all things lie " down to sleep." 

I never knew before what beds, 
Fragrant to smell, and soft to touch, 
The forest sifts and shapes and spreads ; 
I never knew before how much 
Of human sound there is in such 
Low tones as through the forest sweep 
When all wild things lie " down to sleep." 

Each day I find new coverlids 
Tucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight ; 
Sometimes the viewless mother bids 
Her ferns kneel down, full in my sight ; 
I hear their chorus of "good night " ; 
And half I smile, and half I weep. 
Listening while they he " down to sleep." 

November woods are bare and still ; 
November days are bright and good ; 
Life's noon burns up life's morning chill ; 




FALLOW. 171 

Life's night rests feet which long have stood ; 
Some warm soft bed, in field or wood, 
The mother will not fail to keep. 
Where we can "lay us down to sleep." 



FALLOW. 

BOVE, below me, on the hill, 
Great fields of grain their fulness fill ; 
The golden fruit bends down the trees ; 
The grass stands high round mowers' 
knees ; 
The bee pants through the clover-beds, 
And cannot taste of half the heads ; 
The farmer stands, with greedy eyes. 
And counts his harvest's growing size. 

Among his fields, so fair to see, 

He takes no count, no note, of me. 

I lie and bask, along the hill, 

Content and idle, idle still, 

My lazy silence never stirred 

By breathless bee or hungry bird : 

All creatures know the cribs which yield ; 

No creature seeks the fallow field. 

But to no field on all the hill 

Come sun and rain with more good-will ; 

All secrets which they bear and bring 



172 VEJiSES. 

To wheat before its ripening, 

To clover turning purple red, 

To grass in bloom for mowers' tread, — 

They tell the same to my bare waste, 

But never once bid me to haste. 

Winter is near, and snow is sweet ; 

Who knows if they be seeds of wheat 

Or clover, which my bosom fill ? 

Who knows how many summers will 

Be needed, spent, before one thing 

Is ready for my harvesting ? 

And after all, if all were laid 

Into sure balances and weighed. 

Who knows if all the gain and get 

On which hot human hearts are set 

Do more than mark the drought and dearth 

Through which this little dust of earth 

Must lie and wait in God's great hand, 

A patient bit of fallow land ? 





LOVE'S RICH AND POOR. i73 



LOVE'S RICH AND POOR. 

AKING me hand in hand, 
Love led me through his land. 
His land bloomed white and red 
His palaces were fair ; 
Glad people everywhere 
Stood smiling. 

Then Love said, — 

*' With all my kingdom wins, 
Never my heart begins 
To rest ; my cruel poor 
So rob my rich. By speech, 
By look, they overreach, 
And plunder every store. 

" My rich I love, and make 
More rich, for giving's sake. 
My poor I scorn ; they choose 
Their chilly beggary ; 
My gold is ready, free, 
But they forget, refuse. 

" My rich I love. I weep 
To see them starved, to keep 
My worthless poor well fed ; 
To see them shiver, cold, 
While wrapped with fold on fold, 
The beggars sleep in bed. 



74 VERSES. 

" My rich I love, and yet 
My love no law can set ; 
In vain I w^arn and cry ; 
They give, and give, and give ; 
The selfish beggars live. 
And smiling see them die." 

Then u^alking hand in hand 
With Love throughout his land. 
Land blooming white and red, - 
I saw that everywhere. 
Where life and love looked fair, 
It was as he had said. 




LIGHT ON THE MOUNTAIN-TOPS. 

N Alpine valleys, they who watch for dawn 
Look never to the east ; but fix their eyes 
Onloftiermountain-peaksofsnow, which rise 
To west or south. 

Before the happy morn 
Has sent one ray of kindling red, to warn 
The sleeping clouds along the eastern skies 
That it is near, — flushing, in glad surprise. 
These royal hills, for royal watchmen born, 
Discover that God's great new day begins. 
And, shedding from their sacred brows a light 
Prophetic, wake the valley from its night. 



CHRISTMAS NIGHT IN ST PETER'S. 175 

Such mystic light as this a great soul wins, 
Who overlooks earth's wall of griefs and sins, 
And steadfast, always, gazing on the white 
Great throne of God, can call aloud with deep, 
Pure voice of truth, to waken them who sleep. 

Bad-Gastein, Austria, September 9, 1S69. 



CHRISTMAS NIGHT IN ST. PETER'S. 

"lOW on the marble floor I lie : 
I am alone : 
Though friendly voices whisper nigh, 
And foreign crowds are passing by, 
I am alone. 

Great hymns float through 
The shadowed aisles. I hear a slow 
Refrain, " Forgive them, for they know 
Not what they do." 

With tender joy all others thrill ; 

I have but tears : 
The false priests' voices, high and shrill, 
Reiterate the " Peace, good-will " ; 

I have but tears. 

I hear anew 
The nails and scourge ; then come the low 
Sad words, " Forgive them, for they know 

Not what they do." 




176 VERSES. 

Close by my side the poor souls kneel ; 

I turn away ; 
Half-pitying looks at me they steal ; 
They think, because I do not feel, 

I turn away. 

Ah ! if they knew. 
How following them, where'er they go, 
I hear, " Forgive them, for they know 

Not what they do 

Above the organ's sweetest strains 

I hear the groans 
Of prisoners, who he in chains, 
So near, and in such mortal pains, 

I hear the groans. 

But Christ walks through 
The dungeons of St. Angelo, 
And says, " Forgive them, for they know 

Not what they do." 

And now the music sinks to sighs ; 

The Hghts grow dim : 
The Pastorella's melodies 
In hngering echoes float and rise ; 

The lights grow dim ; 

More clear and true. 
In this sweet silence, seem to flow 
The words, " Forgive them, for they know 

Not what they do." 

The dawn swings incense, silver gray ; 
The night is past ; 



WELCOME. 177 

Now comes, triumphant, God's full day ; 
No priest, no church can bar its way : 
The night is past : 
How, on this blue 
Of God's great banner, blaze and glow 
The words, " Forgive them, for they know 
Not what they do ! " 
Rome, December 26, i868- 



WELCOME. 

TO C. C. 

ELCOME ! Perhaps the simple word says 

all. 
And yet, when from a country's earnest heart 
It sudden springs, quick pride and triumph 
start. 
Eager as love, and even hold in thrall 
Of silence love's own speech, while they recall 
How in all men's great deeds of life and art 
Their native land immortal share and part 
Must keep. 

But thou, O royal soul, how small 
Such laurels unto thee, we know who love 
Thee, and whom thou hast loved ! We dare to bring 
To thee this mite of silent offering, 
And know how it thy great, warm heart will move, 
That, dumb with joy, we find no voice as yet, 
And cannot see, because our eyes arc wet ! 





178 VERSES. 



TWO COMRADES. 

To O. W. AND H. DE K. 

S when in some green forest depth we find 
The spot to which with idle, tinkling feet, 
Two brooks have danced all unawares to 
meet 
Each other, where at sight they interwind 
Their shining arms, and loving, trusting, bind 
Themselves for hfe, and with a louder song 
And in a wider channel glide along ; 

As when in some great symphony we trace, 

Through deep and underlying harmonies, 

How all the notes of melody uprise. 

Lifted by answering notes in distant place. 

Fulfilling each in each the final grace. 

But shielding, keeping each from each 

The separate voices through the blended speech ; 

So when we see two human souls by fate 
Held in life's restless current side by side, 
And in their deepest nature so allied 
That each, but for the other, life's estate 
Must smaller find, a sense of joy, too great 
Almost for speech, thrills earnest souls who heed 
Their fellowship and long to say " God-speed ! " 



TIVO COMRADES. 179 

Two comrades such as these I know, — young, fair; 
So fair, that choice cannot find right to choose ; 
So fair, that wish can nothing miss or lose 
In either face ; so young, their eyes still wear 
The looks with which young children trust and dare ; 
So young, the womanhood of each warm heart 
As yet finds love enough in love of Art. 

One, silent, — with a silence whose quick speech 

By subtler eloquence than any word. 

Reveals when deepest depths are touched and 

stirred, — 
Reveals by color tides which mount and reach 
Her broad, white brow, as on some magic beach, 
Where only spotless, peaceful snows resist, 
Might break a crimson sea through veiling mist. 

Silent, with silence which might often make 

Dull ears believe the answer unexpressed 

Meant an assent, or aquiescent rest ; 

Silence whose earnestness dull souls mistake ; 

But silence out of which words leap and break, 

As from their sheaths swords leap and flash in sun, 

When comes the time for swords, and truce is done ; 

Silence which to all finer spirits is 

YnW of such revelation and delight 

As Nature's lovers find and feel in sight 

Of her most sacred, subtle silences ; 

Silence of mountain lake, untouched by breeze ; 

Silence of lily's heart, cool, white, and pure ; 

Silence oF crystal growths, patient and sure. 



i8o VERSES. 

The other, earnest equally, but born 
With veins made for a tropic current's flow ; 
Intolerant if fate seem cold, seem slow ; 
Fullof a noble, restless, dauntless scorn ; 
Unjust to night, for eager love of morn ; 
Unjust to small things for the love of great ; 
Too faithless of all good which tarries late. 

But yet through all this tropic current's heat, 
Through all this scorn of failures and delays, 
Lives faithfulness which never disobeys 
The smallest law of patience, and, more sweet 
Than patience' self, works on to its complete 
Fulfilling, wresting thus from alien powers 
A double guerdon for the conquered hours. 

In vain among all rich and beauteous things • 

With which the realms of beauteous Nature teems 

I look for one which fair and fitting seems 

As simile for her swift soul, which wings 

Itself more swift than bird can fly, which springs 

And soars like fountain, but finds no content 

At levels whence its own bright waters went. 

Only one thing there is whose name is name 
Also for her : swift, restless, patient fire. 
Which, burning always, loses no desire ; 
Which leaps and soars and blazes all the same. 
If spices or dull fagots feed its flame ; 
Swift, restless, patient fire, which saves and turns 
Into more precious things all things it burns. 



DE METER. l8i 

O comrades, sweet to know and hear and see, 

Whom I have dared to paint, each empty phrase 

But mocks my thought ; no dreamy singer's praise, 

No flattering voice of hope and prophecy 

Of what the future years shall bring and be, 

No stranger's recognition do ye need ! 

Ah ! comrades, sweet to hear and see, " God-speed ! " 



DEMETER. 




LEGEND of foul shame to motherhood ! 

How doubly orphaned ignorance which 
wrought 

Such tale ; which deemed a mother's soul 
had bought 
One heahng for her woe in that she could 
Strike other mothers desolate ; — made good 
Her loss by theirs, unpitying while they sought 
As she had sought, weeping and finding nought 
But cruel empty places where had stood 
The children. 

Ah, true motherhood, bereft, 
Finds only joy in thought that joy is left 
For other mothers : smihng, it abides 
In lonehness, a httle way apart, 
And from all happy mothers gladly hides. 
And veils the chilly winter in its heart. 



I«2 



VERSES. 



EXPECTANCY. 




•^?=^=^^ji ERPETUAL dawn makes glorious all hills ; 

^^ IOm Perpetual altar-feast sets fresh shew-bread ; 
Perpetual symphony swells overhead ; 
Perpetual revelation pours and fills 
For every eye and ear and soul which wills 
And waits, with will and waiting which are wed 
Into true harmony, like that which led 
The forces under which, with silent thrills, 
Earth's subtile life began. 

Ah, on the brink 
Of each new age of great eternity, I tliink, 
After the ages have all countless grown, 
Our souls will poise and launch with ear:cr wing, 
Forgetting blessedness already known, 
In sweet impatience for God's next good thing. 



BELATED. 




N a September day I came 
Seeking that flower of sweetest name 
Of all, from which the lavish June 
With boundless fragrance fills the noon, 

In woods where her best blossoms hide. 

" O sweet Twin-Flower ! " I longing cried, 

Hopeless but eager, " is there still 

One tiny pink bell left ? And will 



BELATED. 183 

Thy guardian fairy condescend 

To guide my feet, that I may bend, 

In reverent and fond deHght, 

Once more at the transcendent sight ? " 

The spicy woods were still and cool ; 

In many a little mossy pool 

Bright leaves were floating round and round ; 

The partridge mother's watchful sound, 

The sighs of dying leaves that fell, 

Were all that broke the silent spell. 

In mats and tangles everywhere, 

The Twin-Flower vines lay, green and fair. 

With subtle beauty all their own. 

Wreathing each hillock and each stone, 

Stretching in slender coiling shoot. 

Far out of sight of parent root, 

Making white silken fibres fast 

To all the mosses as they passed ; 

But trembling, empty, withered, bare. 

Stood all the thread-like flower-stems there. 

" Too late," I said, and rambled on. 

Sadder because the flowers were gone, 

Yet glad, and laden with green vines 

Of everything that climbs and twines ; 

With glossy ferns, and snowy seeds 

Strung thick on scarlet stems, hke beads, 

And Tiarellas packed between 

In mottled, scalloped disks of green, 

And purple Asters fit for hem 

Of High-Priest's robes, and, shading them 

Like sunlit tree-tops waving broad. 

Great branching stalks of Golden Rod. 



184 P^ERSES. 

So, glad and laden, through the wood 

I went, till on its edge I stood. 

When at my very feet I saw, 

With sudden joy, half joy, half awe. 

Low nestled in a dead log's cleft 

One pale Twin-Flower, the last one left. 

So near my hasty step had been 

To trampling it, it quivered in 

The air, and Hke a fairy bell 

Swung to and fro, with notes that fell 

No doubt on hidden ears more fine. 

And more of kin to it than mine. 

" O dear belated thing ! " I cried. 

And knelt hke worshipper beside 

The mossy log. The wood, so still, 

With sudden echo seemed to fill 

Repeated on each side I heard 

In soft rebuke my thoughtless word, 

" Belated " ! 

No ! ah, never yet 
The smallest reckoning was set 
Too slow, too fast, by Nature's hand. 
Her hours appointed faithful stand. 
Her milHon doors wide-open stay.* 
Love cannot lose nor leave his way. 
Comes not too soon, comes not too late. 
Twin-Flowers and hearts their lovers wait. 



TO AN UNKNOWN LADY. 185 



TO AN UNKNOWN LADY. 



There lived a lady who was lovelier 

Than anything that my poor skill may paint, — 
Though I would follow round the world till faint 

I felt, for just one little look at her. 

Who said she seemed like this or that did err : 
Like her dear self she was, alone, — no taint 
From touch of mortal or of earth ; blest saint 

Serene, with many a faithful worshipper! 
There is no poet's poesy would not, 

When laid against the whiteness of her meek, 
Proud, solemn face, make there a pitiful blot. 

It is so strange that I can never speak 
Of her without a tear. O, I forgot ! 

This surely may fall blameless on that cheek ! 
From The Riddle of Lovers, Scribners Monthly for J ime, 1873. 



KNOW a lady — no, I do not know 
Her face, her voice ; I do not know her 

name : 
And yet such sudden, subtle knowledge 
* came 
To me of her one day, that I am slow 
To think that if I met her I should go 

Amiss in greeting her. Such sweet, proud shame 
In every look would tell her hidden fame 
Whose poet lover, singing, loves her so 

That all his songs unconsciously repeat 
The fact of her, no matter what he sings, 




1 86 VERSES. 

The color and the tone of her in things 
Remotest, and the presence of her, sweet 
And strong to hold him lowest at her feet, 

When most he soars on highest sunlit wings. 

I bless thee, Lady whom I do not know ! 

I thank God for thy unseen, beauteous face, 

And lovely soul, which make this year of grace 
In all our land so full of grace to grow ; 
As years were, solemn centuries ago, 

When lovers knew to set in stateliest place 

Their mistresses, and, for their sake, no race 
Disdained or feared to run, they loved them so. 

Reading the verses which I know are thine, 
My heart grows reverent, as on holy ground. 

I think of many an unnamed saintly shrine 
I saw in Old World churches, hung around 

With pictured scrolls and gifts in grateful sign 
Of help which sore-pressed souls of men had found. 

O sweetest immortahty, which pain 
Of Love's most bitter ecstasy can buy. 
Sole immortality which can defy 

Earth's power on earth's own ground, and never wane. 

All other ways, hearts breaking, try in vain. 
All fire and flood and moth and rust outvie 
Love's artifice. The sculptor's marbles lie 

In shapeless fragments ; and to dust again 

The painter's hand had scarcely turned, before 

His colors faded. But the poet came. 



A WILD ROSE IN SEPTEMBER. 187 

Giving to her from whom he took, his fame, 
Placing her than the angels little lower, 
And centuries cannot harm her any more 

Than they can pale the stars which heard her name. 



A WILD ROSE IN SEPTEMBER. 




WILD red rose, what spell has stayed 
Till now thy summer of delights .? 

Where hid the south wind when he laid 
His heart on thine, these autumn nights ? 



O wild red rose ! Two faces glow 
At sight of thee, and two hearts share 

All thou and thy south wind can know 
Of sunshine in this autumn air. 

O sweet wild rose ! O strong south wind ! 

The sunny roadside asks no reasons 
Why we such secret summer find. 

Forgetting calendars and seasons ! 

Alas ! red rose, thy petals wilt ; 

Our loving hands tend thee in vain; 
Our thoughtless touch seems like a guilt ; 

Ah, could we make thee live agfain ! 



[88 VERSES. 

Yet joy, wild rose ! Be glad, south wind ! 

Immortal wind ! immortal rose ! 
Ye shall live on, in two hearts shrined. 

With secrets which no words disclose. 



AN ARCTIC QUEST. 

PROUDLY name their names who bravely 

sail 
To seek brave lost in Arctic snows and seas ! 
Bring money and bring ships, and on strong 
knees 
Pray prayers so strong that not one word can fail 
To pierce God's listening heart ! 

Rigid and pale. 
The lost men's bodies, waiting, drift and freeze ; 
Yet shall their solemn dead lips tell to these 
Who find them secrets mighty to prevail 
On farther, darker, icier seas. 

I go 
Alone, unhelped, unprayed-for. Perishing 
For years in realms of more than Arctic snow, 
My heart has lingered. 

Will the poor dead thing 
Be sign to guide past bitter flood and floe, 
To open sea, some strong heart triumphing ? 





THE SIGN OF THE DAISY. 



THE SIGN OF THE DAISY. 

LL summer she scattered the daisy leaves 
They only mocked her as they fell. 
She said : " The daisy but deceives ; 
There is no virtue in its spell. 
' He loves me not,' 'he loves me well,' 

One story no two daisies tell." 
Ah, foolish heart, which waits and grieves 
Under the daisy's mocking spell ! 

But summer departed, and came again. 

The daisies whitened every hill ; 
Her heart had lost its last year's pain, 

Her heart of love had had its fill, 
And held love's secrets at its will. 

The daisies stood untouched and still, 
No message in that snowy rain 

To one whose heart had had its fill ! 

So never the daisy's sweet sign deceives, 

Though no two will one story tell ; 
The glad heart sees the daisy leaves, 

But thinks not of their hidden spell. 
Heeds not which hngered and which fell. 

" He loves me ; yes, he loves me well." 
Ah, happy heart which sees, believes ! 

This is the daisy's secret spell ! 

March i6. 



tgo 



VERSES. 



VINTAGE. 




EFORE the time of grapes, 

While they altered in the sun, 
And out of the time of grapes, 
When vintage songs were done, 



From secret southern spot. 

Whose warmth not a mortal knew 
From shades which the sun forgot, 

Or could not struggle through, — 

Wine sweeter than first wine, 
She gave him by drop, by drop ; 

Wine stronger than seal could sign, 
She poured and did not stop. 

Soul of my soul, the shapes 
Of the things of earth are one ; 

Rememberest thou the grapes 
I brousrht thee in the sun? 



And darest thou still drink 

Wine stronger than seal can sign ? 
And smilest thou to think 

Eternal vintasre thine .-* 



LAST WORDS. 



191 



LAST WORDS. 




>^<?s:?^^EAR hearts, whose love has been so sweet 
to know, 
That I am looking backward as I go, 
Am lingering while I haste, and in this rain 
Of tears of joy am mingling tears of pain ; 
Do not adorn with costly shrub, or tree. 
Or flower, the little grave which shelters me. 
Let the wild wind-sown seeds grow up unharmed, 
And back and forth all summer, unalarmed. 
Let all the tiny, busy creatures creep ; 
Let the sweet grass its last year's tangles keep ; 
And when, remembering me, you come some day 
And stand there, speak no praise, but only say, 
"How she loved us ! It was for that she was so 

dear ! " 
These are the only words that I shall smile to hear. 




Cambridge : Press of John Wilson & Son. 



